Ruse: Case Closed
by YT1
Summary: Simon and Emma are faced with a series of bizarre robberies and a gruesome murder – and the truth behind a mystery that has haunted them both for years. COMPLETE
1. Introduction

"Case Closed"

Summary: Simon and Emma are faced with a series of bizarre robberies and a gruesome murder – and the truth behind a mystery that has haunted them both for years.

_Ruse_ was authored by Mark Waid and Scott Beatty (not at the same time, mostly) and published by CrossGen comics. The setting and most of the characters are theirs; I'm just borrowing them. Any characters who aren't in the _Ruse_ or larger CrossGen canon are mine.

Though the _Ruse_ series uses American spelling, I've decided to use British spelling for this fic. Time – and reviewers – will tell if this is a good idea.

This story is rated PG for mild language and violence.

If you want to post this story in whole or in part somewhere else, please e-mail me first.

Now that that's out of the way, please read and enjoy…

"A confederate who foresees your conclusions and course of action is always dangerous, but one to whom each development comes as a perpetual surprise, and to whom the future is always a closed book, is indeed an ideal helpmate."

-- _Sherlock Holmes_


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One

In the week since we got back from Chaff, my joy at our triumphant return home has almost completely evaporated – in part because I have spent far too much time these past few days engaged in the tedious work of helping Simon put his library back together. It's a task we've neglected for too long: the books we've recovered, and the replacements for some of the ones we haven't, lie about in great mountainous piles waiting to be shelved by Simon and yours truly. Far too much of my time in recent days has been spent perched precariously atop a ladder while shelving heavy books, a task made all the more unpleasant by the current heat wave sweeping through the city. The fact that this work needs to be done does not make me feel any less miserable doing it.

I don't even have the minor consolation of seeing Ophelia endure the same dull work: shortly after we embarked upon this project, she received word that her friend Vashti – who is still with the circus troupe she left to join us, and is apparently an acquaintance of Simon's as well – suffered some kind of injury. The only details I know of the aforesaid injury is that it is serious and elephant-related. Within a few hours of receiving this notice of Vashti's misfortune, Ophelia was off to visit him. She will, unfortunately, return in a few days.

So I must endure this hardship more or less on my own. Well, every cloud has a silver lining. At least I have managed to convince Simon to organize the library according to a system I can understand.

I finish writing cards for some newly purchased books to enter into the library catalogue. Simon remarked to me that there are a number of public libraries smaller than ours that use such a catalogue, and that as long as we were reorganizing our books, we might as well institute one ourselves. It is a good idea, I suppose, but writing out so many cards has made my fingers stiff.

Looking at the watch that hangs from my waistband, I see that it is half past five now. Supper is not for another hour and a half. If Simon expects me to continue with this drudgery after seven o'clock, he is going to be disappointed.

The sound of the front-door bell echoing throughout the Residence startles me – but it also lifts my sprits, because it is an excuse to get away from the library for a few minutes at least. Since I am closest to the door (Simon is lost among the myriad shelves, nowhere to be seen), I leave the catalogue cards on the table instead of filing them and slip out through the library doors. From there I run the maze of halls and passages to the vestibule. Perhaps, I think – I hope – this will be a case! With the rise in temperatures came a drop in business; though the occurrence of muggings and petty thefts always rises with the temperature, uncommon crimes of the sort we are called in for generally dwindle. Nobody has the energy to think them up, I suppose. This means, in short, that we have had only one case since we returned home, and that took no more than half an hour to solve. _Please_, _let this be something to save me from slaving amongst the bookshelves!_

Also, though I don't like to think about it, ennui is the smallest of our problems right now. The Prism may be gone, but the damage Lightbourne did to Partington and Simon's reputation still lingers. The city is recovering rapidly; my partner's status is not. A new case will do him a world of good in more ways than one.

Since the "screening system" can only be used in the forbidden (or at least forbidding) main laboratory in the catacombs below or the upper reaches of the inner Residence far above, I do the simplest thing and use a mundane peephole to examine our caller. The young man standing on the doorstep has sandy, tonsured hair, and wears the black robe and white sash of a brother of the Epiphanic Church. I notice that he is trying very hard not to look nervous, though I cannot determine whether his state of mind or the heat wave is responsible for the sheen of sweat on his skin. He _must_ be bringing a case to us – that's the only possible reason for him to be here. I take a deep breath to calm myself, push some unruly strands of hair out of my face, and open the door.

"Good afternoon, Brother," I greet him with a curtsey. "What can I do for you?"

The brother blinks at me, clasps his hands at the level of his waist and bows politely. "M-Miss Bishop," he addresses me nervously, "I am Brother Anselm, of the Church of the Epiphany. His Eminence the Cardinal has sent me here on a most urgent matter…" He trails off with a shudder. "If I could speak to Mr. Archard…"

_So it is a case, then._ "Come in," I say, stepping back and gesturing for him to enter. He approaches tentatively and steps through the door. I close it behind him, watching as his eyes rove around the pillars and high, vaulted ceiling of the vestibule. This was once a cathedral – I wonder if he finds it awkward to be here. I lead him up the stairs and along the central corridor to the parlour.

"Please wait here," I instruct him, speaking as gently as I can. It's obvious that he's just suffered a bad shock, no doubt caused by the event that the Cardinal wishes us to investigate. "I shall fetch my partner directly." Brother Anselm nods, looking slightly less nervous than he did when he came in.

I leave the room and close the door behind me. As soon as I am far enough from the door to be out of Brother Anselm's hearing range, I dash to the library, my shoes setting off staccato echoes from the walls. I skid to a stop, pull open one of the great double doors, and poke my head inside, looking for Simon. He's nowhere in evidence. I sigh and step through, letting the door swing closed behind me.

"_Simon!_" The echoes of my call fade quickly into silence, and I receive no answer. Frustrated, I march down one of the great avenues between the bookshelves and scan for him. Still nothing. I put my hands around my mouth and call again, louder this time. "_SIMON! Where are you?_"

Again, no reply. _I wonder if he's even still in the library?_ _If he isn't, where else could he be?…_ Though I dread the prospect of having to search around the Residence for him – nor would I like to let poor Brother Anselm wait for so long while I do it – I seem to have no other option. I turn around to head back out of the library and nearly jump out of my skin when I see Simon standing not four feet from me, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, holding some books in the crook of one arm.

He looks at me with that interrogative expression he wears when questioning suspects or witnesses. "Well? What is it?"

My surprise quickly turns into irritation. "You could have had the decency to answer me, Simon." I glare at him, though I know it will have no effect.

"I wasn't that far away; I thought it would be more expedient to simply find you."

"In this case, courtesy would have been more valuable than expediency."

"Courtesy is overrated."

"And that's the philosophy you live by, isn't it?"

"One of them. Now, why were you calling for me?"

Though Simon's character has shown some improvement since the incident three weeks ago, he is still, for the most part, much as he ever was. I sigh, deciding that it is best to drop this argument and get down to business. "We have a case," I inform him.

His expression changes from one of mild irritation to the beginnings of a smile. "Then we shall leave these" – he adjusts the books he is carrying – "for later."

_How about "never?"_ I almost say as I follow him back to the library door.

We ride to the Cathedral of the Epiphany in the small one-horse carriage that Brother Anselm drove down in to see us. It is a relatively short trip, which is a fortuitous thing, because it is also a very unpleasant one. Even inside the Residence, where the temperature is always cooler than it is outside, the heat was uncomfortable; outside, under the glare of the pitiless sun in a cloudless sky, it is nearly unbearable. Brother Anselm, in his black monk's robe, is suffering just that much more from the oven-hot air. My partner, though he is as usual wearing his cloak, does not seem to notice the temperature. Perhaps Simon's perpetual _sang-froid _makes him immune to the effects of the heat wave.

We stop on a circular gravel driveway downhill from the cathedral itself, a great stone building with glittering mullioned windows and a massive bell tower at its centre.

My first thought, when we come to a halt, is that I am relieved for the ocean breeze here that takes the edge off the heat wave. But when I take a closer look at the cathedral, I see something startling enough to drive all thought of my discomfort away.

The window on the uppermost storey at the corner of the building, towards the seaward side, has been completely shattered. All that remains of the glass and the frame are a few jagged bits of wood and glazing round the edges. I know better than to ask my partner if he's noticed this as well.

A boy seated on a bench beside the gravel circle springs to his feet and jogs up to our carriage. Brother Anselm slides out of the driver's seat as the boy opens the door to let us disembark. Once we are both out of the carriage, he closes the door again and runs up to the horse, takes it by the halter and leads it away, presumably to the stables.

Brother Anselm beckons for us to follow him. He leads us to a flagstone path that winds its way up to the cathedral's entrance. "I cannot see the seaward wall from here," Simon remarks to Brother Anselm as he points at the broken corner window with the end of his cane. "Are the upper windows along that side broken as well?"

Brother Anselm wrings his hands. "Not all of them, sir, just the ones that…oh! I'm sorry, I can't say more than that at the moment. I've told you all that His Eminence asked me to." And the information he gave us was rather vague: there had been a robbery, and a murder committed in the course thereof. We would be told more upon our arrival, he had said. "My apologies, sir," Brother Anselm finishes lamely.

Simon does not seem as frustrated as I thought he would. He drops back from Brother Anselm's side to walk along with me and offers me his arm, as if for support to help me up the inclined path. But I know better – this gesture simply gives him an excuse to speak quietly to me. As I take his arm, he leans over and says in a near-whisper, "You see the broken windows. That is where the Church's Museum Obscura is located. They must have repaired it, though I do not know if they managed to recover all the artefacts."

_The Museum Obscura_. I feel a particularly nasty chill run up my spine. "Simon," I whisper back, "Isn't that where…"

"That has no bearing on the current situation," he tells me. Though I cannot say I detect a hint of anger or fear in his voice, there is something about his words that puts me in mind of a thick metal door slamming shut. "Keep your mind on the present," he says in something closer to his normal tone, "where it may be of some practical use."

"_May_ be?" I hiss at him.

"It was a piece of advice, not an insult."

"With _you_ it is difficult to tell the difference."

Simon's smile betrays amusement tinged with mockery. "So I keep you guessing. Good. Anything to exercise your own powers of deduction."

"You mean anything to vex me."

"Miss Bishop, how could you imply such a thing?"

"That you'll make all possible efforts to drive me to distraction?" I say sourly.

"No, that I have to make any effort at all."

Before I have a chance to retaliate we reach the front steps of the cathedral. The great vestibule beyond is mercifully dim and cool. Since few outsiders are given the privilege of entering this place, I try to take in as much of my surroundings as I can. I find myself comparing the elaborate architecture and stonework of this cathedral to their equivalents in the Residence.

Brother Anselm closes the front door and moves quickly to take up the lead once more. "Follow me, please," he says. There are two matched stone staircases that wind upwards from the vestibule – one on the right and one on the left. Brother Anselm guides us to the one on the right. A three-storey climb takes us to a landing, from which we emerge into a long, wide, tiled corridor. Here there are other monks darting here and there, attending to various tasks. They look upon Simon and myself with a great deal of interest and curiosity. Some nod in greeting as we pass by, but none of them speak to us at all.

When we are near the end of the corridor Brother Anselm leads us to a large mahogany door on the left side. His loud knock is quickly answered by another monk who pushes open the door and looks us over carefully. This man's weathered countenance and build remind me of Peter Grimes, although Peter never wore this monk's solemn expression.

"The detectives are here to see the Cardinal," Brother Anselm says. The large monk nods silently and stands aside while still holding the door open. Brother Anselm enters first, and Simon and I follow. We find ourselves in a spacious but sparsely furnished office – the Cardinal's office. There is a row of windows high in the wall directly before us. To our right, a little forward of the wall, there is a long desk with naught but an inkstand, candle, and book placed on it. Behind it is a thronelike chair, and facing it are two smaller, simpler chairs.

I risk a quick glance at Simon to see if I can detect any signs of uneasiness, but his countenance is completely impassive. Though his memories of this place may haunt him all the more for his visiting it again, he will never show it.

The monk who let us in closes the door. He walks over to Brother Anselm, moving very quietly for a man of his size, and says something to him that I cannot hear. Then he walks towards another door in the far corner that I did not notice before.

Brother Anselm wrings his hands and bobs his head apologetically. "His Eminence will be here in a moment," he assures us. I watch the other monk open the door, allowing me a glimpse of shelves full of books. The monk closes the door behind him. A few moments later, he emerges again, followed by another similar to him in size and build. Behind them follows Cardinal Invictus himself, a stout and dignified old man clad in white and gold vestments and a skullcap. Brother Anselm bows respectfully, as does Simon, who can do a fine job of being polite when he cares to make the effort.

As I curtsey, my eyes are drawn to the rear door, which should be swinging shut but is still slightly ajar – because it is being held open by a woman who is surreptitiously sneaking a look at my partner and myself. She is a thin, pale woman with a pointed chin and an aristocratic nose, on which is perched a pair of wire-rim glasses with oval lenses. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe bun. I can discern no more of her before she retreats, shutting the door quietly behind her.

The Cardinal stands before his seat behind the desk; each of the two monks takes up a position beside his chair. His Eminence nods to us, and with a wave of his hand sends Brother Anselm scurrying to take up a position by the main door. That done, Cardinal Invictus lowers himself into his chair. "Please be seated," he says in a low, rumbling voice.

Simon and I each take one of the chairs in front of his desk. The Cardinal steeples his fingers, clears his throat and addresses Simon. "Mr. Archard, Miss Bishop, thank you for coming so promptly. I am sorry that I could not let Brother Anselm explain the particulars of the problem at hand, but I wish to keep this discreet – so I must take certain precautions." He folds his hands on the desk, lowers his chin and fixes us with a deadly serious look. "Of course I will appreciate it if you take similar precautions, at least until this is over." In other words, he wants us to keep mum about this whole affair. I expected as much.

"Rest assured, Your Worship, that we will exercise the utmost discretion," Simon says.

Cardinal Invictus nods. "Brother Anselm has already told you that there was a robbery, and…that someone was killed." He sighs wearily and leans back in his chair. "Let me explain. Since the incident ten years ago – the nature of which you are well aware – we have kept a sentry in the museum at all times."

_Did I just see a flicker of fear on Simon's face? Or was it only my imagination?_

"During Vespers earlier this evening, the Museum Obscura was ransacked. I assume you saw the windows outside." At Simon's nod, Cardinal Invictus continues. "Brother Mallory, the sentry at that time, was savaged by the robber, who left as quickly as he came."

"You said the Museum was ransacked," Simon points out. "Were all the artefacts stolen?"

Cardinal Invictus shakes his head. "No, not all. Some items are still there, whole or in pieces. With the state of the room, it is difficult to tell exactly what was stolen. I have had people searching for the Museum's inventory list, but it seems to have been misplaced." At this the Cardinal frowns in irritation. "When we find it, we will see exactly what has been stolen." He sits forward again and clasps his hands on the desktop. "Until then, the investigation is left up to you. Nothing in the room has been touched since the incident occurred – I made sure that it is all as the thief left it."

"Thank you, Your Eminence. There is something else I wish to ask you. I understand from what you have said that there were no witnesses, but is there anyone who heard or saw anything out of the ordinary?"

Cardinal Invictus gestures at Brother Anselm. Simon and I both look at him – the poor man cringes a little under the weight of so much attention. "Brother Anselm _heard_ what happened, though he did not see it – he was working near the Museum at the time. It was he who called the incident to our attention."

Brother Anselm swallows nervously. "I'll help you in any way I can, sir."

"Is there anything else?" the Cardinal asks Simon.

"No, Your Worship. Not at the moment."

The Cardinal nods and stands up. "Very well, then. Brother Anselm will take you to the Museum and he will, as he said, assist you in any way possible. Let me know when you are finished," he says.

"We shall, Your Eminence. Thank you."

Simon and I stand up. We exchange bows once more before leaving the office with Brother Anselm. I put my hat back on as soon as we are out the door.

Once again Brother Anselm takes the lead – although this time I walk beside him. He is already very nervous, and if _I_ do not question him, Simon will. I fear that if he does he may unsettle Brother Anselm even further.

"The Cardinal said that you were nearby when the Museum was robbed," I begin.

Brother Anselm nods eagerly. "Yes, Miss Bishop. I was cleaning some of the upstairs rooms. Truth be told, I should have had it done by Vespers, but I forgot it was my turn." He colours a little with embarrassment. "In any case…I was almost through when the Vespers bell rang, so I stayed to finish my work. Everyone else went to the Cathedral for services. When I was done and about to leave, I heard some strange sounds coming from the Museum room. Er, this way, please."

We turn right onto a narrower hall. Brother Anselm continues his story, this time with a somewhat haunted look. "The first thing I heard was a loud crash, and then screeching and more crashes and things falling down. I banged on the door to see if the sentry was all right – not the smartest thing to do, I know, but I was alarmed and not thinking quite clearly."

I nod sympathetically. "I see. What happened then?"

"Well, the door was locked and I had no key, so I ran down the stairs and into the cathedral – burst in on the service, but I'm sure the Lord will excuse it since it was an emergency and…"

"Please, Brother Anselm," Simon interrupts, startling both of us. "Just tell us what happened." I would glare at Simon if I could be assured that Brother Anselm would not see me doing so.

"Right sir. Sorry sir." At this point we reach the end of the small corridor, which Brother Anselm opens to reveal a narrow flight of wooden stairs. "I thought we'd take this way. Less traffic and it comes out closer to the Museum," he explains. There is only room for us to go single file on the stairway, so I follow behind Brother Anselm and Simon follows behind me.

"Where was I?" Brother Anselm muses. "Oh yes. I shouted that something was amiss in the Museum, and some of the others followed me – including someone in possession of a key, of course. By the time we got up there, though, the noises had stopped. Whatever had happened, we were too late to do anything about it."

Then he falls quiet, and for a few moments we continue up the stairs in silence. When he speaks again, he does so gravely. "It was a terrible sight – well, you'll soon see yourself. Everything was wrecked, and Mallory…he was practically cut to ribbons." Brother Anselm shudders, and though the light is dim and I cannot see his face full on, I can see well enough that his skin has gone ashen. "His Eminence told us to clear out so that you could examine everything properly, and he sent me to fetch you. The rest you know."

We reach the topmost landing of the staircase. Before us is a small wooden door, which Anselm opens. He waves us through, and we emerge into yet another hallway. The wall along one side is set with windows that look out on the cathedral proper. There is a single large door in the opposite wall. Brother Anselm scurries to it, removes a key from his sash, and unlocks it. He then takes hold of the handle to pull the door open.

"Wait," Simon says. Brother Anselm stops and looks up at him. "I saw someone in the back room of the Cardinal's offices downstairs. Who is she?" I feel a little silly for not asking that question myself – after all, I _am_ curious about who she is and what she is doing here – but since she did not seem relevant to the case, I forgot to inquire.

"Miss Romanelli, sir. I don't know her first name. She's here doing research for something, but I'm afraid I don't know any more about that, either." He shrugs. "I believe she's His Eminence's cousin, or perhaps his niece...one or the other. My apologies, but that's all I can tell you."

"Hmm." Simon looks intensely thoughtful for a moment. He shakes his head. "I shall ask His Eminence about her when we see him downstairs," he decides. Brother Anselm nods and pulls open the door to the Museum Obscura.

Simon goes through immediately, but I do not. There is something I have to take care of. "Brother Anselm," I say, "Can you please bring a basin, pitcher, soap and a hand towel?"

"Certainly ma'am," Brother Anselm replies. "But…if you don't mind, may I ask what…oh." All the colour drains from his face as comprehension dawns. "I see," he says quietly. "I shall fetch the items you requested."

"Thank you," I say. Brother Anselm bows, looking numb with shock, and sets off down the hall. I shake my head. A monk really should not be so perturbed by such things. Although I'm not one to talk, really; my stomach is not quite as strong as I wish it were, which is why I stop to take a deep breath and calm myself before stepping over the threshold into the Museum Obscura.


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

What remains of the Museum Obscura is scattered all over the white linoleum floor of a large, rectangular corner room on the uppermost storey of the building. Not a single glass pane of the mullioned windows is intact. Every stand, table and shelf has been toppled or broken, and every display case smashed. Plaques, exhibit cards and artefacts – or fragments of artefacts – are sprinkled throughout the debris.

I take pains to avoid stepping on anything as I work my way over to the left side of the room, where Simon is kneeling over the supine form of the late Brother Mallory, carefully avoiding the reddish-brown stains on the floor around and beneath the body.

When I get closer, I can see that Brother Mallory bears lacerations and gouges of various lengths and widths all over his body, some of them deep enough to expose bone. His clothing is stained and crusted with blood. Of course I have seen the bodies of murder victims before, but this is one of the worst, and I cannot help but shudder a little and cringe in revulsion.

Simon puts his cane aside, removes his gloves and slips them into an inner coat pocket. He carefully lifts Brother Mallory's head – not an easy thing, since rigor mortis has set in – and examines it carefully. "Interesting," he mutters to himself, utterly absorbed in whatever thoughts his observations are conjuring up.

"'Interesting' is not the word _I'd_ use, Simon," I say, frowning.

Simon looks up at me and raises an eyebrow. "Squeamish, Miss Bishop?"

I square my shoulders and lift my chin. "You know better than that, Simon. I simply lack your tolerance for the grisly and macabre."

"You should share it, by now. We _have_ been working together for three years."

"Must I remind you that you only allowed me in on murder scenes for two of them?" I point out coolly.

"Must _I_ remind _you_ that we recently had a discussion about keeping one's mind on the present?" he returns in much the same tone.

"You were the one who brought up the past, not I."

"I told _you_ not to do so, but I do not recall ever issuing a similar prohibition for myself."

I glare at him, to no effect. "Now you're splitting hairs…"

"A habit of the profession."

"And yet another practice that you permit yourself, but forbid _me_ from engaging in."

"Hair-splitting is inappropriate for a lady, unless she does it while nagging her husband – and _I_ am not your husband."

"Thank God."

"Indeed." Simon lets Mallory's head down, then lifts his right arm and examines it for a few moments. Once finished, he painstakingly replaces the limb, stands up, walks around to the other side of the body and kneels again to check his left arm. As he puts it back down, I hear footsteps just outside the door and turn to face it.

Brother Anselm is standing in the doorway bearing a basin and pitcher, with a towel over one arm. "The soap's in the bowl, Miss Bishop," he says. He does not look as grey-faced as he did when I last saw him. Perhaps he has grown more comfortable with the idea of a post-mortem examination, or – equally likely – he is simply trying very hard not to think about it. Probably the second, since something tells me that he is quite deliberately not looking in the direction of Simon and the late Brother Mallory.

I right one of the few intact tables in the room before approaching Brother Anselm. "Thank you," I say with a smile as he scurries in and arranges basin, pitcher, soap and towel on the tabletop.

Brother Anselm smiles back at me, sheepishly, and clasps his hands behind his back. "I'll be outside if you need anything else, Miss," he says. He bows quickly, backs up through the door and takes up a post beside it.

Simon quickly finishes his examination of the corpse and joins me at the table. I pour some water for him from the pitcher to wash and rinse his hands; then I pass him the towel.

"So, what did you find out?" I ask as he pulls down his sleeves and takes his gloves out of his pockets.

"There were no defensive wounds on his forearms," Simon informs me, "And there is a contusion on the back of his head." He tugs on his gloves and flexes his fingers.

I look at Brother Mallory's body, this time without so much of an adverse reaction. "So the thief knocked him out and then savaged him?"

Simon retrieves his cane and stands up. "_Thieves_, Emma. A single thief could not have destroyed the room so completely during the time in which the incident took place. And I do not think that Brother Mallory was knocked out intentionally. He fell – or was pushed – into that display case behind him there shortly after they entered." Simon indicates the fallen case with his cane. It does indeed look as if Mallory could have tripped backward and hit his head.

"He didn't even have time to run for the door," I observe. "I doubt Brother Mallory's death was quick – since the swelling from the blow had the minute or two it needed to develop, he probably bled to death. At least…that means he was not conscious when he died." This knowledge gives me some relief.

"It would seem so," Simon agrees. High praise, from him.

"All right. But it doesn't make _sense._"

"And it is only one of _many_ little anomalies," Simon remarks. "The footmarks are the first oddity I noticed here. Most of the ones I have found so far were made by the round-toed shoes that the monks wear – indeed I am given to understand that they are worn almost exclusively by the monks. There were also some prints from a woman's high-heeled boots, which are not exactly practical attire for a burglar. They probably belong to the woman we saw downstairs, and I have no doubt that Brother Anselm or the Cardinal could explain her presence here. I have found no other traces yet."

"The conditions for footmarks are not very good," I point out. "The weather has been very dry of late. There is little mud or dirt to adhere to people's shoes and leave good traces. Brother Anselm also told us that the monks came in here after the incident, and they might have obscured any traces left by the thieves." Simon's far more adept at looking for and interpreting footprints than I will ever be, but in the past three years I've learned a little of the technique myself.

"Perhaps, but I should have found at least one or two other traces by now. I may do so upon closer investigation. That isn't the only problem – as I said, there are many anomalies." By now Simon's every word and gesture crackles with the energy of professional enthusiasm. He only gets this close to excitement when he is well and truly puzzled. "How did the thieves enter through the window, do all of this in the little time allotted to them, and escape without being noticed at all? In broad daylight? And why, I wonder, did they take the trouble to destroy practically everything in this room, especially when the noise would alert anyone nearby to their activities?"

"What I'm wondering," I add, "is why they did _that_ to Brother Mallory. The poor man…what a horrible way to…"

Simon shoots an irritated glance at me. "We are here to investigate his death, Emma, not to mourn it. His compatriots can take care of that."

I look quickly at the door, hoping that Brother Anselm did not hear him. Then I glare at my partner. "Have a care, Simon," I say in a low voice. "One of his 'compatriots' is standing right outside the door."

But he isn't listening to me. Instead he is moving slowly around the room, examining the debris and occasionally kneeling to inspect something on the floor. At one point he stops and absentmindedly passes his cane from his left hand to his right. Then he deliberately crosses his arms and lifts his left hand to his chin with fingers loosely curled and the tip of his thumb touching his lower lip – a gesture which I have privately dubbed his _geste de pense._ As the name implies, he makes this gesture while he is contemplating, puzzling over, studying or otherwise thinking about some object, though he does it at other times as well: for instance, when he is quite deliberately ignoring me, as he is doing now. "Hmm. Coal dust," I hear him mutter. "How did that get in here?"

Simon never pays me any attention when I speak of sympathy. But his lack of a reply has never discouraged me from pressing the issue, and it does not do so now. "Surely you must feel _something_ for the victims of the crimes you investigate. You cannot…"

My partner whirls around and silences me with a look of utmost gravity. "I have spent fifteen years in this profession," he says in a low voice, "and during that time I have dealt with every vice of which man is capable. And I cannot, as a matter of necessity, allow what I see of those vices or their consequences affect me."

For a moment I can do naught but stare at him in dumb silence. "I'm sorry," I say in a strangled whisper.

After a short but almost unbearable silence Simon turns away muttering, "Do not try to elicit a response from me if you are not actually prepared to receive one."

_You have never offered a response before, Simon. What was different this time?_

I feel my cheeks colour with embarrassment, which becomes even more intense when I consider the possibility that Brother Anselm overheard our little exchange. I cannot tell which is worse – that a stranger may have heard me being set down, or that I so richly deserved it!

Fortunately, my sense of practicality is strong enough to overcome my feelings of self-pity. _There's no point in dwelling on it: what's done is done. I shall do my duty and help my partner._

Though I do not know _how_ I can help. Simon is still looking around the room, and I can tell by his countenance that he has not found any additional clues. At the moment he is simply going over everything for the second time.

Actually, not quite everything. I do not think he looked out the windows through which the thieves entered the room. They must have climbed the outer walls. Perhaps, by some slim chance, they left some trace of their passage that could provide us with information.

I stride up to one of the windows and carefully stick my head outside so that I can examine the wall. From here the view is quite lovely – the sunlight twinkles on the rippling water, which stretches to the far horizon like a silvery blanket, and several gargoyles circle lazily in the air. The height and the cool air coming off the sea combine to produce a strong, steady breeze, which nearly lifts my hat off my head. I clamp it down with my left hand and turn my eyes downward, away from the enchanting (but not useful) view of the water, so that I may scan the wall for _something_ of use, though I know not what…

In the corner of my right eye I see something barrelling towards be at alarming speed. With an exclamation of surprise and fear I scramble backwards from the window and collide with Simon, who happened to be passing behind me. We both lose our balance, and for a fraction of a second I am sure that we will both end up in a heap on the floor. Fortunately Simon keeps his feet and grabs me by the shoulders to help me keep mine. The head of his cane, which he is still holding, digs uncomfortably into my shoulder.

Just outside a middle-sized gargoyle – a rake, I think – darts through the space that was occupied by my head and shoulders not a moment before. It lets out a high-pitched cry of frustration as it swoops upwards and away.

"Perhaps he disliked your hat?" Simon suggests facetiously as he releases his hold on my shoulders. I adjust that selfsame hat, which was knocked askew by the impact, and glare over my shoulder at him.

"Is everything all right?" Brother Anselm asks from the doorway. I step around Simon as I turn to face the young monk.

"Fine, thank you," I assure him. "I was looking out the window; one of the gargoyles flew close and startled me."

Brother Anselm looks relieved. "Oh. The ones around here are a bit bold sometimes…"

"And it seems they have recently become much bolder," Simon comments quietly. Both Brother Anselm and I look at him in puzzlement. I immediately recognize the light of revelation in Simon's eyes, and am able to make some sense of his cryptic remark. Brother Anselm is utterly confused.

"Would you care to explain?" I ask.

Simon turns to Brother Anselm. "Please inform His Eminence that I have finished my examination of the room," he says. Which means that the monks begin the work putting their comrade to rest. Brother Anselm nods solemnly and withdraws. I hear his footsteps receding as he walks down the hall.

"Simon," I begin as my partner starts walking back toward the door, "We _mere mortals_ cannot match your deductive talent, as you well know." I lift my skirts a bit as I step over a fallen display table so that I can follow directly after him. "I am confused as to how a gargoyle's attempt to take off my head has anything to do with this case. Would you care to enlighten me?" I look at him expectantly as we step out into the corridor.

I receive a slight frown for my sarcasm, but I also receive an answer. "Though there were no footmarks from the intruders, I _did _find some residue from burned coal. Since they do not burn coal here, the residue could not have come from nearby. It may have come from a train station, but the context in which it is placed by other clues leads me to think that it came from the city rooftops, where…"

"Simon." I smile gently and hold up a forestalling hand. "You don't need to give me a lecture on coal smoke and soot. I know perfectly well where they come from." He sometimes gets carried away with his explanations; it's endearing, in a way, but mostly it's just frustrating.

At least Simon has enough grace to be only a little indignant at my interruption. "Very well. Brother Mallory's wounds are more consistent with claws than knives. Brother Anselm mentioned hearing screeches from this room," – he points at the Museum Obscura with his cane – "which could not have come from Brother Mallory, as he was knocked out early in the attack. What does that suggest to you?"

It takes me but a moment to put two and two together. "You mean _gargoyles_ were responsible for _that?_" I ask, waving my hand at the wreckage of the Museum.

"That is exactly what I mean, yes. I had already suspected it, but you provided me with the final clue through creative use of your head."

I subject my partner to a stern look that, I hope, conveys to him my complete and utter lack of amusement. "That was a _very _poor joke, Simon."

"I do not make jokes," Simon responds nonchalantly.

"I can see why – you're not very good at…" And then a very nasty possibility occurs to me, causing my stomach to roll over with dread. "Oh, dear Lord…"

Simon frowns in puzzlement at me. "What is it?"

I step closer to him and put my hand on his arm – for support, for security, I know not what. "Simon, Miranda Cross can control gargoyles," I whisper. "We were never sure what happened to her! Perhaps _she_ is responsible for this!" I have not told my partner about all the _other_ things Miranda is capable of, but we both saw the gargoyles in her mansion when we foiled her scheme to hypnotize Partington's leading citizens: more to the point, we both saw them attack me, seemingly on command.

"The possibility of Miranda's involvement did indeed occur to me," Simon admits in a low voice. "I cannot think why she might have done this, but she _is_ the most likely culprit."

Were I frozen in a block of ice I would not feel so deeply chilled as I do now. "What are we going to _do?_" I choke. Even when I had my powers I could offer no real resistance to Miranda Cross, and now that they are gone…

"The first thing _you_ should do is loosen your hold on my arm," Simon answers.

With a start I realize that I am holding his arm in a tense, white-knuckled grip – probably hard enough to cause him no small amount of discomfort. I withdraw the offending hand and let it drop at my side.

"There. Now, I said that Miranda Cross is the most _likely_ culprit, but we should not jump to conclusions. Nor should we go into hysterics," he adds, giving me a significant look.

"If you are attempting to rouse my ire in order to quell my fear, it isn't working," I say. "But thank you for trying."

At that moment I hear footsteps close by. Simon looks at something over my shoulder. I turn around to see Brother Anselm entering the hallway with a few other monks. Some are carrying brooms and buckets. The two at the tail end of the group are carrying a litter. All look decidedly grim.

Brother Anselm approaches us as his fellows enter the Museum Obscura. "His Eminence will see you shortly – but first there is someone he thinks you should speak to," he gestures for us to follow him, and it's the wooden steps once more for us – though this time we are going down instead of up. "Miss Romanelli was in the Museum a few minutes before the robbery…although, thank God, she left for the Vespers service and so was not there when it happened." _So those _were _her footmarks in the Museum_.

I suppose that Cardinal thinks that Miss Romanelli may have seen something useful, but I am puzzled as to why she did not speak to us when we first arrived. Perhaps she is timid and convinced that she can offer us no help. It would not be the first time Simon and I have come across a shy witness – and we have found that, often as not, such people actually do provide us with valuable clues. There is a _second_ possible reason for her silence, hinted at by a certain coincidence that any person possessed of decent common sense would notice; Miss Romanelli's visit to the Museum Obscura took place shortly before the gargoyle attack. Though I am still strongly inclined to believe that Miranda Cross is responsible – and I think that Simon does as well, though he will not say it outright – this coincidence must still be considered and investigated.

Brother Anselm takes us to a small sitting room across from the Cardinal's office. The room and its furnishings are rather spare, but still comfortable. Sitting on one of the two couches flanking the long, low table in the room's centre is the woman I glimpsed in the Cardinal's office shortly after we first arrived. Now that I can see her better, I realize that she is younger than I first thought – in her late twenties, I believe. Her dress is of dark blue silk, but very conservative and unadorned. The only jewellery she wears is a gold signet ring on the third finger of her right hand, the device of which I cannot make out. On her lap rests a large black bag, which she clutches agitatedly in her gloved hands.

As Brother Anselm leaves us, Simon walks up to couch she is seated on – though he is standing at the nearer end of it, and she is at the far end – and looks at her with that particular satisfied expression he wears when one of his suspicions is confirmed. "Viscontessa Helena Romanelli," he says. "I _thought_ I recognized you."

_Wait…Viscontessa? And Simon's met her before?_ That is a mystery in itself – and I am even more intrigued by the Viscontessa's reaction. She remains seated instead of standing up to greet us, and she looks at Simon as if she wishes him to drop dead on the spot.

"I am not going by my title here," she says coldly. Though her accent is not strong, it is still recognizable – and, along with her name, marks her as a Calabrian. The Viscontessa turns her attention to me. "You are Emma Bishop, are you not? Mr. Archard's assistant?"

"_Partner_," Simon corrects before I do. In this moment I could forgive him for every sarcastic, snide, insensitive or offensive remark he has ever made to me, but this is certainly not the time to voice such sentiments – and I doubt he would really appreciate them if I did.

Although I already have reason to dislike Viscontessa…_Miss_ Romanelli, I do not make a habit of meeting rudeness with more rudeness, especially upon making a first acquaintance – that's Simon's prerogative. I curtsey politely to Miss Romanelli. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," I lie smoothly.

Miss Romanelli purses her lips at me. "You must be a saint, to bear the company of a man such as _this_" – indicating Simon with a flick of her eyes – "for so long. Would that we all had your patience."

I must confess I have at times had similar thoughts myself, but I would never be so audacious as to voice them aloud – and this woman certainly has no right to do so!

Simon is unfazed by her backhanded compliment. "As charming as you ever were," he remarks as he walks around the low table to take a seat on the couch opposite Miss Romanelli's.

"I could say the same of you," she returns venomously.

I sit down next to Simon, unsure of whether I should see this exchange as more amusing or embarrassing.

"There is no need to be so vitriolic," Simon tells Miss Romanelli. "I am only going to ask you a few questions."

Miss Romanelli looks daggers at him. "I remember what happened the _last_ time you asked me a few questions," she growls. _Ah…now _this _is interesting!_

Simon returns her glare in silence for a moment. Then he sighs. "Miss Romanelli, we both know that I dislike you, and _you_ dislike _me _even more. We would rather not be in one another's company, but circumstances have brought us together. Let us therefore act in both our best interests, and try to keep our time spent on this exchange to an absolute minimum by getting this business over and done with." Pity. I was sure that Simon would continue the verbal duel for a while longer – it would have been quite a show, since Miss Romanelli appears to be as rude and acerbic as he is!

"Very well," Miss Romanelli answers resignedly. "Ask your questions."

That settled, Simon begins his inquiry, and Miss Romanelli cooperates with him fully – though her manner and her tone of voice make it obvious that she is hard pressed to behave towards him with even the smallest amount of decency. After a short while I take upon myself the job of questioning her, for I know what information Simon wants from her, and I guess that she will find talking to me more palatable than talking to my partner. Fortunately I am correct, and my attempt to cool her temper is successful, to a point.

Miss Romanelli tells us that she is writing a comprehensive history of the Church of the Epiphany, and came here to look into the archives. Cardinal Invictus – who is, as Brother Anselm said, her uncle – was kind enough to grant her the permissions she needed for her work. He also allowed her into the Museum Obscura so she could view some of the artefacts that have a significant bearing on the Church's history. These she sketched for illustrations to her account, though a condition of her admittance to the Museum is that she must say she got her pictures from the Church's books, and not from seeing the artefacts themselves.

She spent all the afternoon in the Museum Obscura, under the watchful eye of the sentry – Brother Mallory – and left when the bell rang for Vespers. In all the time she was in the Museum, she saw nothing she considered alarming or unusual. She learned of the incident when Brother Anselm ran into the cathedral to raise the alarm. The Cardinal dispatched Brother Anselm to us not ten minutes later, and asked Miss Romanelli to stay in case she might be of some help.

"Which I did, out of respect for my uncle and the trust he has seen fit to place in me," she concludes. "And that is all – unless you have any _more_ questions?"

Simon rises from his seat. "That is all we have to ask, for the time being – though, unfortunately for both of us, I may have to speak to you again later."

I stand up as Miss Romanelli does. "I am staying at the Hotel Adelphi. If I am not there, I will be here." She is obviously reluctant to be giving him this information, since the last thing she wants is for us to bother her again, but she knows as we do that the Cardinal would have told us, had she not done so.

Simon takes a business card from his coat pocket and holds it out to her. "In the unlikely event you wish to contact us, please don't hesitate to do so. Thank you for your time." The way he says this makes it sound more like a parting shot than a polite expression of gratitude.

Miss Romanelli does not reply, at least not directly. She takes Simon's card without a nod or curtsey and slips it into her handbag, then turns on her heel and stalks out. As she departs she mutters a rather colourful epithet in her native tongue that almost sets my ears on fire and underscores it by slamming the door. I'm not exactly a stranger to foul language, but I hope I will never be closely acquainted with words like _that._

Once she has let the door shut behind her, Simon looks quizzically at me. "What did she just say?" he asks.

I consider lying and saying that I did not quite catch it, but I made no attempt to conceal my shock at hearing it, so Simon would not believe me. "You don't want to know," I almost snap.

The corner of Simon's mouth curls up in an amused half-smile. "Have we been introduced?" he asks, obviously amused to see me so discomfited. But of _course_ he wants to know. He always does.

Though I would not like to sully my tongue by repeating Miss Romanelli's parting words, I do not think Simon will give me any peace until I do. As I am trying to determine which is the lesser of two evils, it occurs to me that giving Simon the answer he seeks might cause him to regret his curiosity – _that_ would be a sight to see! I gather my courage enough to whisper the offending phrase – translated, of course – in his ear.

The reaction is not at all what I expected. Simon assumes a contemplative expression and rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm. I never really knew my mother, but I doubt very much that she…"

"_Simon!"_

He smiles at me – not with mocking amusement, but with real affection. "Emma, how could I possibly be offended by what that woman said after _you_ did such an excellent job of being offended for me?" Simon lifts my hand and kisses it.

One of the odd things about Simon is that on those all-too-rare occasions where he displays good humour, I cannot help but share it, no matter how black my own mood may be. Though Miss Romanelli's unpleasantness is still fresh – and I am still uneasy about Miranda Cross – I cannot suppress a smile.

"You weren't really going to finish that sentence, were you?" I ask.

"Since you interrupted me, we shall never know."

"I can live with that. But I _must_ know how you became acquainted with Miss Romanelli." I sit down on the couch again, grinning smugly at him. "All I know of your connexion to each other is what little I have heard these past fifteen minutes, and that she seems to share your belief that courtesy is overrated."

Simon rolls his eyes at me, but he obliges my request and sits down once more. "Though I am loath to cut short your amusement at my expense, I must inform you that you are mistaken; she does _not_ behave that way to everybody…I know what you are thinking, Emma, and if you say it you will be shelving books in the library while I work on this case myself."

It is not clear whether this is a promise or an empty threat, but I decide it would not be prudent to take the risk of finding out for certain. I hold my tongue and listen attentively.

"Six years ago, I was called upon to investigate the death of Viscount Arturo Romanelli, the last male heir of his family. His mother and sister – and Cardinal Invictus, I suppose, though I did not know it at the time – were his only surviving relatives. It was his mother, now deceased, who engaged my services.

"Viscount Romanelli had been killed by a hired assassin, and his mother wanted me to find out who was responsible. I will not bother you with the details of the case. Suffice it say that, in the end, I found out that he had by devious and very elaborate means arranged for his own murder."

Simon and I have worked on some very strange cases together, but I have never before encountered the like of this. "His own…but why?"

"The Viscount had many very bad habits, among them compulsive gambling and excessive use of opium. The Romanelli family estate, which had already suffered misfortunes in his father's time, did not provide him with sufficient income to support his vices. His bad management of it only exacerbated the problem. The upshot of it was that Viscount Arturo had substantial debts which he could pay off only by selling or mortgaging most of his property."

"And he had kept this a secret from his mother and sister?" I ask.

"They knew of his activities, but not the extent of his debts. When I told them what had happened, they wanted to ensure that this scandal was never made public, and even after they paid for the Viscount's sins, they managed to get together an appreciable amount of money to…"

"…to try and buy your silence," I finish. "That is positively _disgusting._" We have of course been offered "hush money" – as Pete once put it – dozens of times in the past, but the idea of a _client_ offering a bribe for that purpose is one I'd never conceived of before.

Simon nods. "They wanted me to say that I was unable to solve the case. Were it not for this I would have tried to protect their reputation somehow, but under the circumstances I did not think they deserved such consideration. I would not take their money, not even the regular fee for my services. Needless to say, we did not part on good terms. I said nothing of the bribe, but telling the police the truth about the Viscount's death was enough to ruin his family's reputation. And that, Miss Bishop, is a faithful narrative of all my dealings with the Romanellis."

"And she just behaved as if it were all your fault!"

"Judging from what I know of her and other nobles in general, I will make the charitable assumption that she has deluded herself into believing that it is indeed my fault," he says.

I shake my head. "I cannot believe the Cardinal would continue to associate himself with her, after what her brother did – though I suppose one cannot hold her accountable for _that_."

"Cardinal Invictus may truly believe in the concept of Christian forgiveness, which I do not even pretend to understand. Speaking of the Cardinal…." Simon gets to his feet. "He will want to hear what we have discovered thus far. Let's not keep him waiting."

We recount our findings to Cardinal Invictus and assure him that we will continue with our investigation into the robbery of the Museum Obscura and the murder of Brother Mallory. The Cardinal, much to my relief, does not express frustration at our limited success – not all the people who employ us are so patient or understanding. Although perhaps he can sympathize, since he is having trouble with his own investigation; the inventory list for the Museum Obscura is supposed to be in the back room of his office, but it was not in its accustomed place, and even a thorough search failed to turn it up. But he is sure to find it soon, and will contact us when he does.

After taking our leave of the Cardinal and waiting a short time in the vestibule while Brother Anselm fetches our carriage, we go back out into the stifling heat and embark on the ride back home.

There was a time when I regarded Partington's gargoyles the way most other people do, as a part of the scenery, a sometime nuisance, and a bit of a curiosity. But over the past few months the creatures have become in my eyes more and more ominous. What we have just seen is only a continuation of the trend. As the carriage begins moving, I watch the gargoyles circling overhead with a wary eye.

Soon after we get underway Simon's eyes take on a distant, unfocused look, which signals to me that his mind is fully engaged in the task of trying to puzzle out the gargoyle robbery case. I know what this means – once we get home, he's going to seal himself in the think tank. For the time being I have nobody to talk to, and nothing to take my mind off my worries over the possibility that Miranda Cross is breathing down our necks.

Simon does not notice when we pull up in front of the Residence, and I am forced to shake him out of his reverie. I thank Brother Anselm for taking us back home before I lead my partner inside.

He starts drifting again once he has hung up his coat and cloak in the closet just beyond the vestibule. I know that if I do not intervene he will skip supper – it would not be the first time he has gotten too absorbed in his thoughts to remember to eat – so I will not let him get away just yet.

"If you're going to shut yourself up in that horrible contraption all night," I say, pushing him in the direction of the kitchen, "At least don't do it on an empty stomach."

For a short time, Simon's urge to argue with me overcomes his desire to lose himself in speculation. "I do not recall ever giving you permission to nag me," he says irritably.

"Simon, I am not _nagging_ you. On those occasions when your common sense goes on hiatus, I am obligated to stand in for it. _That_ is what I am doing."

"I never gave you permission to stand in for my common sense, either. It amounts to the same thing."

"It does not matter whether you or anybody else gave me leave to do so. I shall continue nagging, or being the voice of common sense – however you choose to define it – until you eat something." I give him the sort of look that a governesses do when they issue their charges an ultimatum to behave or be punished. It's one of the few things that works on him, and then only if used sparingly.

My partner frowns at me, but he continues on the way to the kitchen without being pushed. After a moment he sighs resignedly. "Very well, I shall concede – but only so that I may have some peace."

Supper for both of us consists of, as usual, something that can be quickly and easily prepared from some of the contents of the icebox. Simon is content to treat food as a necessity to life and no more, so we do not have a cook. As for myself, this is just one of the many Things I Have Learned to Live With (or Without, as the case may be).

After we have finished, Simon leaves me to wash and put away the dishes – he usually takes care of his own from force of habit, but when he is in such a state as this he hasn't the patience or attention for it. I let him go – I can only delay the inevitable, after all, and I see no point in further antagonizing him by doing so. Only after he has left and I have finished putting the dishes away do I realize that I have forgotten to ask him if there is anything I can do out here in the world of the living to help with the case. But if I had he might have assigned me to shelving books in the library again, so it is probably just as well.

I cannot think of any useful task with which to occupy myself – save shelving books, which I shall put off doing again for as long as possible – so I find myself wandering about in the darkened halls of the Residence, as I occasionally do when I am alone and unsettled in my mind. Desperately I hope for something to distract me from my thoughts, or, better yet, something that will calm them.

The calm I do not find, but I get the distraction. As I pass through the great entrance hall I am startled by the ringing of the front-door bell. I scramble down the stairs to answer the door, wondering who the caller could possibly be this late in the evening. Perhaps it is Brother Anselm or another of the Epiphanic monks, come to give us a new piece of information on the case – perhaps the inventory book has been found.

But when I look through the peephole I see that the man standing outside is no monk. He is, however, familiar to me – and the moment I see him my heart freezes in terror for a moment, then tries to scramble up out of my throat. Though I have not seen him since I began working with Simon, his face is burned indelibly into my memory, and I have spoken with him many times over the past three years through rather…_unconventional_ means. With a gasp I pull away from the peephole and flip myself around, so I am leaning back against the door. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, trying without much success to calm myself.

Danik's presence here should not come as so much of a shock to me. After all, I finished my assignment almost a month ago, and we have some unfinished business to attend to…


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Schooling my face to calm, I unlock and open the door for him. "Good evening, Emma," he addresses me in a deep, placid voice. "I know I am late, but…there were some urgent matters which required my attention." The statement is simple explanation, not apologetic in the least. Danik passes through the doorway with surprising grace for a man of his size and build.

Danik is practically a giant – a head taller than Peter Grimes, and a bit broader across the shoulders – but he moves about as noiselessly as a panther. He has short bright-red hair and a serious, angular face. His eyes are of a light amber colour that, like his overall appearance, is just this side of unnatural. Even his elegant grey suit seems unnatural, for it throws off little rainbows where the light hits it, much like a fish's scales do.

"It's…it's all right," I say dully as I close the door behind him. "You actually picked a good time. Simon is…"

Danik holds up a hand. "I _know_ where he is at the moment. My good timing is _not_ a lucky accident."

For the second time today, I feel stupendously embarrassed. "Oh. Of course." I clear my throat. "Perhaps we should go to the parlour to talk?"

Danik merely nods. I walk in the direction of the parlour and gesture for Danik to follow me. Though I am getting over my initial shock, I still feel as if my knees might fold up of their own accord at any moment.

We do not speak again until we are both seated in the parlour – I on the couch, and Danik on one of the chairs, which he has turned so as to face me. By this time I have passed into the numbness beyond terror. I cannot say what it is about Danik that frightens me so, for I did not fear him this much even after I first found out what he really was. Perhaps my fear of him is born of one of those little idiosyncrasies of human nature; one becomes accustomed to seeing certain things as forever distant and impossible, even if they are inevitable: and no matter how long one has spent dreaming about or working towards or preparing for such things, one is always shocked when they come to pass.

"I must admit," Danik begins, "That the way in which you accomplished your task was rather surprising."

I blink at him. "You mean you were surprised that I succeeded?"

"No more than I should be. As you are probably aware, I thought that the odds were very much against you from the beginning." Danik crosses his legs and steeples his fingers in front of his chin. "But I would not have played this game with you if I had thought it impossible for you to win. What surprised me is that Simon discovered your powers even though you did not use them in an obvious way – except at the very end, of course. You took a considerable risk."

Danik's manner as he says this is much too casual for my liking. I feel some of my terror being melted away by indignation. "When I did it I thought I was forfeiting. I could not let him die, even to save myself."

"And that, I think, proves your point as much as your actual victory did." The corners of Danik's mouth curl upward in a smile that is wise but devoid of warmth. "I came very close to calling it a loss for you, Emma, but under the circumstances I think that would have been rather…_petty_ of me."

_Well, I'm glad you didn't decide to be petty. _"You said you were surprised that Simon knew about my powers – what of the Enigmatic Prism? Was that another such surprise?"

Danik does not say anything. He just smiles a bit more, and looks at me for a few moments.

When I understand the meaning behind his look, the last of my terror is swept away in a rush of revelation. "You _did_ know. You knew the whole time. Miranda and the Prism were part of the game." I feel buoyed by that particular exhilaration so familiar to detectives – the feeling that all the pieces of the puzzle are coming together, revealing the sought-after solution. "But they existed long before we made our agreement, so they were not simple obstacles you put in my way. Simon had the Prism long before he…." _Oh, good Lord._ I can barely breathe, much less speak.

"Impressive," Danik remarks, seemingly oblivious to my distress. "You have learned a great deal in the last three years. But even your partner, if he knew what you know, could not discern the whole truth for himself."

The grandfather clock against the far wall chimes eight. Once it has finished ringing the hour, there is only its ticking to fill the vast and empty silence.

Still I am unable to speak. I stare wide-eyed at Danik, wondering whether or not I really _want_ to know the whole truth. But either way, I know, I am going to hear it.

"This was not simply a way to test you," he says, shifting in his chair. "It was actually a wager between myself and a third party. In truth, it was not so much a wager as an _experiment._ Even that word does not quite describe it." He frowns and shakes his head. "I should start from the beginning. You could not understand my actions without knowing something of the history behind them.

"You see, when the human race was in its infancy, we were already on the threshold of transcendence. The Transition, as we call it. I was among those who went through the Transition, leaving behind mortal trappings such as physical bodies and emotions. We became creatures of pure energy, imbued with power you could scarcely imagine."

Usually the phrase "power you could scarcely imagine" is no more than hyperbole, but I do not doubt that Danik is using it in the most literal sense. "Do you mean to say…that you became gods?"

"I suppose you could put it that way," Danik says airily. "We thought we had achieved our goal of becoming one with the universe. But Andra – one of the best and brightest among us – realized that we were less than we had sought to be. She tried to warn the rest of us that our Transition was incomplete. By eliminating our emotions, she said, we had kept ourselves from our goal. She said many other things that the rest of us found…uncomfortable. Most of my people believe her to be dangerously unstable."

_Andra…_ The name sounds vaguely familiar, but only vaguely. I've probably met someone named Andra in the past, though I very much doubt she was the Andra to whom Danik is now referring. "The way you speak of her makes me think you don't share that opinion."

For a moment something like sadness flickers across Danik's face, and for that fraction of a second I am not afraid of him at all. "Whether any of us gave her warnings some consideration, instead of dismissing them out of hand, I do not know. We might have killed her, but we had not the means, nor the will to discover them. Instead she was confined to this little galaxy of which this world – and our former homeworld – are a part. We impaired her mind in such a way that she would not even know she was a prisoner, or have the power to escape."

Danik does not sound ashamed, nor does he sound proud. In my horrified fascination I wonder if he is just hiding his feelings or if, as he said, he has lost them entirely.

"I was appointed her guardian," he continues. "I watched her carefully. Though she no longer had the capacity to fully comprehend or articulate the heretical theories for which she had been imprisoned, she had not entirely forgotten them either. That much was obvious from her actions. In her mind she was creating toys and playing games for her own amusement, but in these games I saw evidence that she was right about _some_ things at least…." Danik trails off, looking at me thoughtfully. "I do not think I could explain it to you. Suffice it say that I was willing to give her ideas more serious consideration, but I was not quite sure. Because of that I proposed to her that we play a new kind of game."

He doesn't have to spell out the rest of it for me – it is perfectly, inescapably clear. "You mean that this…this…" – I substitute an expansive gesture for the word I can't find – "it was just a way of proving a point? That Simon and I were guinea pigs in your little experiment?"

Danik is unfazed by the forcefulness of my words, which is probably a good thing. If he had been I might have gotten myself into a lot of trouble. "Nothing so crude as that. First of all, it would be against our principles to treat any sentient creature as a 'guinea pig.' Second, the nature of this test prevented it from being a controlled experiment as such. We did not set up the conditions for the test: in fact, Andra has left this particular world to itself for the past million years or so. This world had developed, all on its own, a set of pre-existing conditions that were close to ideal for our purposes.

"We already knew about the existence of Miranda's people and their realm – called the Negation, as you yourself discovered – which is one of the reasons I made the wager with Andra, and another reason why we chose Arcadia as our playing field. Miranda and the Enigmatic Prism represented a threat that hangs over our heads: something only Andra and I, and now you, know about. We do not know much about the Negation, but we _do_ know that they are aware of us, and that they are _very_ dangerous."

I wonder how many times a person can be scared so badly in a single day. "What of Miranda, then? What did she come here for? And…where is she now?"

Danik uncrosses his legs and leans back in his chair. "Miranda may have been a scout. More likely she was an exile from her own realm. I cannot resolve that question now."

"What do you mean by that?"

"The Prism was linked to Miranda in a way I do not fully understand. It was – or it contained – something vital to her. When it left this universe and she did not, she lost control of her powers, with fatal results."

I feel blessed relief wash through me. "So she's gone for good," I say, feeling gladder as I put it into words. _That means she couldn't have robbed the Museum Obscura – but in that case, who did? And how?_

Danik nods. "You have nothing to fear from her any longer." He shifts a bit in his seat. "But we have gotten off the subject. My wager with Andra was not simply a way of proving a point. The fate of my people – indeed, the fate of this universe – hung on the question of whether she was right or wrong. The game was but a shadow-play of things to come, although it will be a long time before the crisis breaks."

"I…I think I understand now. But there are other things I wish to know. When you gave me this task, you gave me the impression that you were testing me, or that you had taken an interest in me for some reasons of your own. Obviously that is not the case. So I want to know – why me? Why Simon?" Oddly, though I am still afraid and somewhat angry, my predominant feeling is one of curiosity. Is that due to what Simon would call a habit of the profession, or because of the nature of the truth I am uncovering?

"It is that matter of pre-existing conditions. Andra chose you because your beliefs and disposition are similar to her own, and you happened to be in the right place at the right time. When Andra was impaired, she could no longer consciously understand how her powers worked. I could, so we decided that I should teach you how to use yours. Andra might also have lost interest after a time, since she considers this a mere game, so I am managing it myself. When we began this experiment I chose Simon as your opposite number – in part because his personality and abilities suited the test, and in part because the Enigmatic Prism happened to come into his possession. In a way, it was fortunate that it did."

Danik could not have realized exactly what he was saying, nor could he have realized that his words would produce such a terrible silence, which is only deepened by the ever-present ticking of the grandfather clock. "I think Simon would disagree with you," I say. "_I_ certainly do." I have no idea what expression may be showing in my countenance at the moment, but it must be something fearsome; Danik shifts a bit in his seat, breaks away from my gaze for a moment, and clears his throat before continuing.

"He might – but it is more complicated than that. It was, as I said, fortunate that the Prism ended up in his hands. It was also fortunate for _him_, as it caused me to save his life."

This sounds so callous to me that I am driven to the brink of rage. I stand bolt upright, stride up to Danik and glare down at him. I know he could destroy me with a single gesture, or a thought, but I don't care. "Yes, but lest we forget, it nearly got him killed in the first place – and it has _tortured_ him ever since. I do not _care_ what the stakes were: even _you_ do not have the right to use a person that way! If I had known…"

Danik, still placid and unperturbed, holds up a hand to silence me. "You are angry that I used _him._ What about _you_?"

"I _chose_ to play your game," I answer through gritted teeth. "At least I knew something of what I was getting into. Simon never…he never even…" My words dwindle away into a strange feeling that I cannot name – it is somewhere between anger and sadness. I become aware of the tears blurring my eyes, and struggle to compose myself. For the past three years I have not allowed myself to cry, not even when I was alone, and I am certainly not about to start now.

I slowly back up and sink onto the couch. "He never even had a choice," I finish weakly.

Danik says nothing for a time. I think that perhaps he is being courteous and allowing me to collect myself – but from what he has just told me, I doubt that is the case. He could not think me worth such courtesy.

"You are not quite correct," Danik says flatly. "And I will explain why. First, though, I must say to you: it had to be done. In your mind, I know, that is no justification. But it had to be done."

I fold my hands in my lap and stare at them. In the silence that follows the soft, rhythmic ticking of the clock sounds almost deafening. I do not agree with Danik's assertion that all of this manipulation was necessary, even after what he told me about his own people and the threat posed by Miranda and her ilk. He will have to give me his longer explanation.

Once he realizes that I am not going to reply, Danik breaks the uncomfortable silence. "I did not simply choose Simon because the Prism happened to come into his possession. I chose him because of his character. Simon was already trying to become a creature of pure rationality, with Lightbourne's encouragement – although he could not quite overcome his compassion or his eagerness to do good.

"I watched him ever since he and Lightbourne became involved with the Enigmatic Prism. He seemed almost perfect for the purposes of the experiment; but I was not absolutely certain until he tried to save Lightbourne from the fire in the Museum Obscura, despite knowing of his treachery…"

"…and he was betrayed for it," I finish. "That, I thought, was what made him…the way he is. But am I to suppose now that it was not the sole cause?"

That wise little smile appears on Danik's face again as he nods. "There were other factors, yes – partly of my own making. I took Simon out of the fire and healed his wounds. The Prism I put inside Lightbourne's cane, and made sure that the cane and Simon would be found together. At that time nobody knew of what evil Lightbourne had done: only that the cane was all that remained of him. It was given to Simon while he was recovering at the hospital. He did not know that the Prism was inside until some time afterward. Do you know why he kept the object that was so precious to his former mentor?"

_Not to mention the same object that was used to run him through,_ I think. That question has puzzled me ever since I learned the truth about Malcolm Lightbourne, but I never dared ask Simon about it. I shake my head.

"You have seen the engraving on it. I put it there. When he saw it Simon concluded, naturally enough, that it had something to do with his miraculous recovery. Because of that, when he found the Prism inside, he knew he was meant to be its guardian."

I lace my fingers together. "That's just like him," I murmur, and follow with a short, bitter laugh. "He could never back down from a challenge. Or perhaps he thought it was his duty to keep the Prism. Or both." _Oh, Simon…_ Once more I feel tears gathering in my eyes, and once more I force them back.

"I do not know whether you are right or wrong in guessing his motivations. But as you can see, I _did _him the chance to decide," Danik says quietly, "Just as I did with you. He did not know what game he was playing, but he knew the risks. And he accepted them." This said, Danik's solemnity fades back into his usual calm detachment. "The mark I put on the cane is not just there for show. It is a symbol of the power I conferred upon him – power that amplified his talents and made him achieve his full potential. My goal was to give him enough pure willpower and mental focus to resist the Prism."

"But that did not work," I say.

Danik nods and crosses his legs again. "Indeed not. You understand that the Prism magnifies the universal human potential for evil and corrupts most of those who come into contact with it. Simon was not corrupted, because he had little of such evil in his character and was better than most at controlling it. I thought his resistance could be credited to his self-control and detachment – his ability to bury his emotions. Upon reflection, I realize that the Prism might have been enhancing this very ability in order to do to him what it had done to so many others. He thought he was protecting himself from it, and all the while it used his own defences to slowly but surely erode all that was good in him."

I have been severely frightened more than once today – nay, in the past few hours. Hearing this gives me fear, too, but of a very different kind: it is not terror I feel, but deep, chilling, insidious dread. "What _would_ have happened, had I not intervened?"

I am not sure what to make of the look Danik gives me. "In all honesty, I do not know. I doubt it would have driven him mad as it has done with others, although it seemed to be doing that in the end. He would have kept his sanity, but he would also have lost his good principles." Danik does not elaborate further, but he does not need to. I can imagine – if only just – what _might_ have happened.

For a while I sit in silence, letting all I have just heard settle in my mind. "I do not know what to think now," I say quietly. "Should I be thankful that you saved Simon's life, or angry at what you made it afterwards?"

"That I cannot tell you," Danik says, "but I think, in the end, I did him more good than ill. Henceforth I shall not interfere with him; he will be on his own. And that," Danik says, leaning forward to look at me with a curious light in his eyes, "brings us to the question of what will happen to _you_, now that you have won our wager."

I remember his words to me five years ago: _you have the potential to be so much more than you are, Emma. I can teach you how._ Every time I think of those words I feel the same mix of yearning, curiosity and fear that I did when I first heard them spoken.

"I will complete your training as I promised. Before I can do that, you must conclude your business here, and meet me when you are ready."

A ball of ice grows in my stomach. "When? Where?" I ask.

"You may meet me whenever it is convenient for you," he says – though the tone of his voice tells me that the "convenient" time for me had best be soon. "As to where, there is a confluence of ley-lines outside Partington. You remember where that is, of course?"

In the ruins of Miranda Cross's mansion. How could I ever forget it? "I…yes. But why must it be _there_?"

"Because in order to keep my promise and teach you how to make full use of your powers, I must first restore them, and I cannot do that unaided." Danik stands up and straightens his frock-coat. "That concludes our business here. Unless you have any further questions…?"

_I probably will after you've left and I'm settled enough to think of them. _I do not like the tone Danik is taking with me, but I do not think it would do me any good to object. "No, thank you," I mutter, trying to infuse the words with a sincerity that I do not feel. I stand up, feeling as weak-kneed as I did when I came in, and walk with him out of the parlour, into the vestibule and to the front door.

As we reach the entrance hall, I realize that I have one more question. "Danik," I say, "What am I going to tell Simon?" I had always intended to tell him about my powers after the wager was over, but never about the wager itself.

Danik does not even look at me. "Whatever you think is best," he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. What he really means is, _it isn't any of my concern._

I open the front door for him. As he steps across the threshold, he looks over his shoulder at me. "Until we meet again." Those are his parting words to me, before he walks down the steps and into the street.

After closing the door behind him, I lean against it as I did before letting him in. My thoughts are leaves in a hurricane, their motion so rapid and chaotic that it is almost enough to make me physically sick.

_What am I going to tell Simon?_


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

For a few hours after Danik's departure I fidgeted, fretted, and thought. As I predicted, I came up with new questions a few minutes after his departure: whether I neglected to ask them out of simple forgetfulness or fear I still do not know. Why, exactly, did Andra choose me in the first place? How will Danik use what he has learned here to prove Andra correct? Did she intervene in my life in some way that I'm not aware of, the way Danik did with Simon? If he did, it would explain a lot of things….

After berating myself for my absent-mindedness (or cowardice), I realized that I could simply ask Danik the next time I met him. At the moment I had a far more pressing matter to deal with: my imminent departure. Danik may have said that I could join him at my convenience, but I doubt his patience with me will go that far. With that in mind, I constructed, considered and discarded countless possible excuses I could give to Simon for leaving on short notice. In desperation I considered simply stealing away and leaving behind a letter of apology for my departure and my inability to explain my reasons for it; vanishing without a trace; telling him the truth. But if I departed without warning, whether I left a letter or no, I would be betraying Simon's trust in me. I _cannot_ do that.

I don't think telling him the truth would be a good idea. If Simon knew about the wager, he would think very ill of me indeed. Not to mention that Danik probably didn't consider the truth to be in the category of "whatever I think is best" to tell my partner.

Most of the excuses I thought of were no better than nothing at all. Those that seemed inoffensive and vaguely plausible would not stand up to close inspection by the average person, let alone a _cursory_ inspection by Simon. Just about every scenario I could think of ended with him realizing that I lied to him, and hating me for it.

_You have the potential to be so much more than you are. _From the outset I knew that I would have to leave in the end, whether I succeeded or failed in my task. Danik never said in so many words that realizing my potential would mean departing from my life as I know it, but I am almost certain that I will not be able to continue as I am. I must sacrifice one way of life for another, and I am not at all prepared. _Heaven help me._

At midnight Simon was still in the think tank. I gave up waiting for him, and went to bed. Of course I have not slept much, and when I _did_ sleep I had nightmares which, thankfully, I am unable to recall. Morning has not brought me any enlightenment – only aching muscles and a dull pain in the head. Though my own worries are no small thing, I elect to shelve them for the time being: I have work to do today, and I have gotten off to a bad start by oversleeping.

The face I see in the vanity glass after I have washed, dressed and put on makeup is only marginally less haggard and worn than it was before. I cannot help but be afraid that Simon will know everything the instant he sees me in this state. It's an irrational fear, I know – even taking Simon's preternatural deductive skills into consideration – but as my partner himself once said, excessive paranoia is often the curse of those who have something to hide.

I make my way down to the kitchen for breakfast. As I approach the slightly open door I am met by the aromas of toast and tea, and the crisp rustling sound of a newspaper page being turned. Usually I wake up at dawn or not long afterward, and Simon, who rarely goes to bed until well after midnight, is not to be seen until at least nine or ten o'clock in the morning. If he is up and about by now then he probably didn't sleep at all. This is by no means the first time he has stayed awake through the night, or even the hundredth: I have come to accept it, and only really worry when he goes without sleep for two or three nights in a row.

Simon lowers his newspaper and glances up at me when I enter the kitchen. After taking note of the rather frightful state I am in, he leans backward in his chair and looks at me with a hint of a smirk on his face. "I would wish you good morning, but I think you would beg to differ with me."

I have not been in his presence for five seconds and already I am severely irritated with him. "Shut up," I creak as I stumble to the chair across from his, jerk it roughly out from under the table and collapse on it. The sudden movement briefly intensifies my headache and makes my vision swim. I wince and cover my face with my hands.

"Come now, Emma," he says with exaggerated cheerfulness, "I expect you to come up with a more creative retort than _that._"

I drag my fingertips down from my temples to my cheeks and glare balefully at him. "I do not have the energy to be creative at the moment," I answer in a leaden voice, "but I _do_ have sufficient energy and ill temper to do something violent if you continue to mock me. So _don't_," I growl.

Simon parodies a thoughtful expression. "Hmm. I suppose that's good enough, for now." He goes back to his paper.

I sigh. Since I really _don't_ have the energy to continue bantering with him, I take the napkin from beside my plate and put it on my lap, pour myself a cup of tea and get a piece of toast from the large plate on the centre of the table. Though I am not actually that hungry, I don't want Simon to know that something is amiss with me, nor do I want to suffer from a lack of food as well as sleep.

A few bites of buttered toast and a cup of tea serve to clear my head somewhat and put me in a more civil mood. I address Simon in a perfectly neutral tone, as if our exchange a minute ago never took place. "Is there anything about the robbery at the cathedral?"

Simon lowers the paper again. "No. The Church has managed to keep it out of the papers, at least for the time being."

I nod. "You obviously developed _some_ insight into the case last night, or you would not be in such a good mood now."

"I did not discover the solution," he confesses as he closes and folds the newspaper, "but I have a theory – and some ideas about where to go next."

"Hmm." I take a sip of tea. "Care to share them with me?"

"The theory I shall keep to myself until I have more evidence to support it," he says, placing the paper on a corner of the table.

I know from previous experience that pressing him to disclose his theory will only lead to trouble – he is religious in his reticence – so I move on to a safer question. "What plans have you made, then?" I ask conversationally as I pour myself some more tea. _Will they include me, or will you be disappearing to carry them out on your own?_

"First, we shall have a talk with Adeline."

_That_ wakes me up a bit more. "Simon, the _last_ time you spoke to Adeline I had to distract her mother while you climbed through the window. I don't think that trick will work again." I wonder if Mrs. DeWinter ever figured out who I really was – if she did, I never heard tell of it.

Simon gives me that vaguely smug look I know so well. "The _last_ time I spoke to Adeline we were fugitives, and it was winter. Neither of those circumstances apply now."

"Which means…?" I take a small bite of my toast.

"Adeline's governess takes her to the park every afternoon," he says. I'm not going to ask how he knows that. "We will be able to see her then."

I swallow my mouthful of toast. "All right. Since you said we would consult Adeline first; I assume that she is not the only person you have in mind?"

Simon folds his arms and does his _geste de pense_. "There is one other. _That_ will be somewhat more difficult: the man I wish to consult is Fenton Crombie."

_CROMBIE!?_ I burn my mouth by swallowing too much hot tea, sputter, choke and nearly drop the cup and saucer. After putting them down on the table I grab the napkin from my lap and start coughing violently into it. I almost make myself sick, but the tickling in my throat won't allow me to stop.

I did not notice Simon getting up from his chair, but I feel it when he taps me on the shoulder. Through watery eyes I see that he is offering his own half-full teacup, the contents of which have cooled enough to stop steaming.

Taking the hint, I remove one hand from the napkin crammed to my face and take the offered cup. I remove the napkin and manage to suppress my coughing fit just long enough to swallow some of the tea. The irritation in my throat eases considerably, and after a few more feeble coughs I am free to catch my breath. I lower the napkin to my lap once more and return the teacup to Simon.

Only then does it occur to me to be surprised by what he has just done.

"Th…thank you," I say hoarsely as Simon returns to his seat across the table.

"Be more careful how you swallow," he replies sternly, picking up the teapot and refilling his cup. "Next time you may not have sufficient presence of mind to keep from dropping the teacup."

"Well, please _excuse_ me for putting your chinaware at risk." My effort to deliver these words in the form of an intimidating hiss is foiled by the weakness of my still-recovering vocal chords, so it comes out as a pitiful, raspy whisper. "That's what comes of springing nasty surprises on me while I'm drinking tea." I dab around my mouth with the napkin and smooth it across my knees.

"I shall endeavour to keep that in mind. Now, let us return to our original subject."

Still discomfited from the events of the past two minutes, I am for a moment unable to remember what we were talking about before. But the lapse is, fortunately, quite brief. "Right. Fenton Crombie. Is he related to…"

"Yes."

"And is his opinion of you the same as…"

"It is. I've checked."

I frown at Simon. "And _this_ is the man we must consult?"

"Fenton Crombie knows more about gargoyles than anyone else in Partington, perhaps the world – so yes, we must consult him."

For a few moments I simply look at Simon with an expression of mixed confusion and irritation. He returns my look with a neutral one of his own, interlaces his fingers and puts his hands on the table, sending the clear message that if I want any more information, I shall have to ask him.

"And how," I say dryly, "do you propose to consult a man who won't so much as give you the time of day?"

A brief shrug from Simon. "I am still working on a strategy for that."

"Oh. _Wonderful._"

As the last syllable passes my lips the phone in the outside hall begins to ring. I sigh, put the napkin on the table, and stand up from my chair. "I'll answer it," I say desultorily as I walk out of the kitchen.

This is shaping up to be a _very_ bad day.

Between my misadventures at the breakfast table and the unbearable heat outside I cannot help but entertain the notion that I have entered some outer circle of Hell without being aware of it.

The phone call came from Commissioner Theopolous Thornton, asking us to come investigate a robbery. _Two_ robberies, actually, in different parts of the city. Both incidents in private residences, though in different parts of the city – the first at the mansion of the Verinders on the edge of the city, and the second at a townhouse belonging to Mr. Eismore, one of Partington's most prominent lawyers. Eismore's house is closest to the Residence, so we visited him first.

Investigation of the house and inquiry of the Eismores confirmed that Mrs. Eismore's jewellery and some other small items had been taken the night before, when the Eismores were out of town and all the servants were asleep. The safe in Mr. Eismore's office, which contained a significant amount of money in cash and banknotes, had not been touched. The small wooden cupboard in Mrs. Eismore's bedroom, which had contained her jewellery, had been smashed open and looted. I was the one who saw it first, and noticed the small claw marks in the wood. The window had been broken, but not smashed to pieces – only a single pane near the latch had been shattered, so that the latch could be opened from the outside.

Simon did not tell the Eismores that gargoyles were the culprits: they would not have believed him, I think. Instead he told them that he would have to look into it further, and that he might find out more after investigating the robbery at the Verinders', which he believed was related to this one. Mister Eismore was good enough to be patient and respectful – something we have rarely seen these past few months – and wished us the best of luck when he exchanged cards with Simon.

Upon leaving the Eismores' we find a police cab waiting for us, compliments of Commissioner Thornton. As we settle ourselves in the cab and start off for the Verinders' mansion a few miles away, I look at Simon gravely and remark – very quietly, so the constable driving the cab will not overhear – "They're getting better at it."

Simon has his elbow on the back of the seat, his chin in his hand and a pensive expression on his face, which is directed not at me but out at the passing scenery. "Or rather, the one _controlling_ them is getting better at it," he replies, in similar low tones, "unless the wreck made of the Museum Obscura was done deliberately, in order to create confusion."

"Yes, he certainly managed _that_ very well," I agree. "But he is ruining the effect by committing _more_ robberies." Simon turns his head to face me, looking mildly interested. "Judging by what he has stolen thus far – the Museum's artefacts and the jewellery – I would say that he is either getting carried away by avarice, or the power at his disposal has made him arrogant enough to believe that he will never be caught. The artefacts he took from the Museum Obscura alone are probably worth a staggering sum of money. Professional thieves, or at least prudent ones, tend to lay low after taking such spoils. But he robbed the Eismores and presumably the Verinders as well."

Simon's continued attention indicates to me that I am on the right track, or at least the same track _he_ is following. "Every fresh incident increases his risk of being caught. Even if he knew that the Epiphanic Church would keep it quiet, he should have known that someone would eventually…"

"You keep saying 'he,'" Simon interrupts, sounding more as if he's talking to himself than to me. "I thought you suspected Miranda Cross."

_Oh, hell. Emma, that was positively idiotic of you_.

I want to say that I _know_ it's not Miranda Cross, but I can't do that without letting Simon know about my conversation with Danik yesterday evening. Fortunately both training and experience have made me quite good at improvisation. "You said yesterday that Miranda Cross was a _likely_ suspect, but that we should not jump to conclusions. I jumped to conclusions, and I am trying to force myself away from them." Even as I say it I feel just slightly nauseated with guilt. There is no reason now to conceal the truth from Simon, except to preserve his good estimation of my merit.

_Is that worth deceiving him for? He may never know I lied to him – but _I _always will._

For a moment Simon does not reply – he just looks at me with an unreadable expression. I cannot discern whether or not he was taken in by my falsehood. "I can aid you in that endeavour," he says at last, "by assuring you that Miranda Cross was probably _not_ responsible."

_Whew. _If Simon did not press me, it almost certainly means that he believes the explanation I gave him – _almost _certainly. Simon continues with his explanation. "The Baroness would not use her power in such a crude fashion. She'd think it beneath her, and she wouldn't want to catch my attention. No, this is not her doing. So please stop fretting about it."

"Easier said than done," I mutter as I turn away and look out of the carriage on my side. _I _wish _I were still fretting about Miranda Cross. It was better than what I'm worrying about now._

I assure myself that I was not wrong in deceiving Simon just now. This is not the time or place for saying such things – not where the cabdriver or any passers-by may hear. But a mercilessly honest voice in the back of my head tells me that I would have lied to Simon even if there had been no risk of anyone overhearing, and I shouldn't pretend otherwise.

For the rest of the trip I am sunk too deep in my thoughts to notice the heat, the noise, the thronging people in the streets or the gargoyles flitting from rooftop to rooftop above.

I return to the world of the living as our cab arrives at the wrought-iron gate of the Verinder manor. The policeman guarding the gate welcomes us and pulls it open so that we can pass through. From there we drive down a neat, wide dirt avenue lined on both sides by tall elm trees. This part of the grounds is a small meadow, with a lake off to the left – the elegant house itself, which is a good distance down the road from the gate, is located on the border between the meadow and the estate's small woodland. There is a great windmill tower attached to the west side of the mansion – probably to supply power for their water-pumps and electric lights – but because of the weather there is nothing more than a feeble breeze now and then, so the arms of the windmill do not move.

I count half a dozen policemen outside the house when our cab draws to a stop just outside a courtyard. We disembark and pass through the open gate. In the courtyard there are rows of flowerbeds with stone benches beside them. The flowers are mostly dead and shrivelled from the oppressive heat. The plain stone fountain in the courtyard's centre is dry. I look around for broken windows, but all the ones facing onto the courtyard seem to be intact. If this was another gargoyle robbery – which I am sure it was – then they must have gotten in through a window in another part of the house.

One of the courtyard doors opens, and much to my surprise, Commissioner Thornton emerges from it. Well, the Verinders are certainly prominent enough to merit his personal attention – their coal mines up north make them one of the five richest families in the city. With the money from the mines, the now-deceased Harrison Verinder had more than enough to purchase this substantial estate, modernize the great house and get himself a title.

Theopolous strides across the flagstones to meet us. "Simon! Emma! Glad to see you've arrived at last!" He reaches us as he finishes his greeting, and shakes hands with Simon. I offer him my hand, which he kisses quickly but politely. "Early this morning Lady Verinder and her daughters were robbed of their jewellery by – understand that we don't want to advertise this, though there's little hope of keeping it quiet – by…"

"Gargoyles?" Simon finishes dryly.

The Commissioner blinks in surprise. "You have construed it already?" As always, I have to hold back a wince at Theopolous's attempt to make himself seem an intellectual by dropping bits of sophisticated vocabulary in awkward places. He's not stupid, but when he tries too hard he sounds that way. "Archard, you'll never cease to amaze me."

Simon, of course, does not even pretend to appreciate the compliment – in fact, he doesn't even acknowledge it. "I did not deduce it from what I have seen here. The Eismores were also robbed by gargoyles last night. I was just at the scene."

"Ah." Theopolous nods. "Well, as you see, it's quite an anomalous situation. The whole house is in an uproar because – excuse me…" Here Theopolous pulls a handkerchief from his coat pocket to mop his brow. "Perhaps we should talk inside. It's a veritable inferno out here," he says.

That brings the heat to _my_ attention as well. "It's quite all right, Theopolous. Let us go inside," I say as he folds up his handkerchief and replaces it in his pocket. Theopolous then directs us through the door he came out of, into the parquet-floored (and, thank God, _cool_) front hall. From there he takes us to a lavishly furnished inner parlour. On the way we pass some of the household staff, who regard us with no small amount of interest, as the monks in the Epiphanic Cathedral did yesterday.

There is here a low table with a sofa on either side. Simon and I sit on one, while Theopolous sits on the one opposite us. "There, much better," he says. "Now, down to business. At about three o'clock this morning, Lady Verinder and her daughters were rudely awakened by the sound of their windows being smashed. I interviewed the lady and the two girls, and found that all their cases were more or less the same: a flock of screeching gargoyles flew in through the windows and swarmed about the room. Fortunately they all succeeded in exiting their rooms before they incurred more than a few minor lacerations."

"The gargoyles didn't pursue them?" I ask.

Theopolous shakes his head. "No. The gargoyles stayed more or less in the ladies' rooms. They stayed just long enough to make a thorough mess of everything, and then defenestrated themselves as suddenly as they had come in. A few servants looking out the windows saw them fly off, but they didn't all go in the same direction."

I can see the look of disappointment on Simon's face – we would get no clue from the direction of the gargoyles' flight.

"After my men picked through what remained of their rooms," Theopolous continues, "we confirmed that all their jewellery had been taken."

"Was anything else stolen?" I ask.

"Only the jewels," Theopolous answers.

"Much the same thing took place at the Eismores'," Simon remarks, "save that they were not in the house when it was robbed."

"Theopolous," I say, "Simon and I should speak with Lady Verinder and her daughters, to see if we can get any further details that – no offence meant – you may have missed."

At this Theopolous looks somewhat embarrassed. "I'm not offended, but…I am not sure it would be a good idea for you to speak with them directly."

Simon raises an eyebrow at him. "Why not?"

"Err…you see, I trust you, and I brought you here to help with the investigation, but the Verinders themselves may not be so amenable to your presence. They engaged the services of…"

"…Iain Crombie?" Simon finishes. One who does not know him as well as I do would not catch the ice in his voice or the slight disdain betrayed by his countenance.

Theopolous actually colours and clears his throat. "Affirmative." I resist the urge to sigh in frustration. Theopolous was one of those who stayed loyal to Simon after Holey Thursday; Lord Verinder, apparently, is one of those who did not.

Simon and I exchange serious glances for a moment. I turn back to Theopolous. "But they cannot object to letting us look at the crime scene?" I'm actually not sure about whether they can keep us out or not. This particular situation has never come up before.

"Not _lawfully,_ no," Simon says as he gets to his feet. "Not if we are here at the Commissioner's behest."

"Quite right," Theopolous agrees as he gets up from his seat and adjusts his coat. I too stand up. "I shall take you to Lady Verinder's room first. I _do_ hope you can make something more of this than we can – it is a most abstruse case." He leads us back out into the hall.

And there we get a rather nasty shock.

I had not actually heard Theopolous say that Iain Crombie had left the house, but I had assumed that the man was already gone. And yet here he is, with his assistant Charity Wyndham in tow, standing in the hallway and looking daggers at my partner.

This is going to be ugly, I know it. I just pray that it won't be _too_ ugly.


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

"Mister Archard."

"Mister Crombie."

The temperature of the air around our little gathering goes from hellish heat wave to dead of winter – except for the air between Simon and Crombie, which seems to waver with intense heat. Thepolous, who is standing forgotten against the wall, looks absolutely mortified. No, mortified doesn't describe it. He looks like he's wishing hard for the ground to open up and swallow him.

Simon regards Crombie with an expression of annoyance and disdain. Crombie's face is a picture of naked hatred and contempt. Charity Wyndham, I notice, is looking apologetically at _me_. I return her look in kind. Though I do not know her well, I know her enough to understand that we are in more or less the same situation, both charged with the duty of reining in our respective partners' faults – and it seems hopeless to try and perform that duty now.

The two men have been silently glowering at one another for a few very uncomfortable seconds now. Crombie lifts his chin haughtily. "What," he says venomously, "are _you_ doing here?"

"Investigating a robbery," Simon replies in a surprisingly normal, conversational tone of voice – which, nonetheless, seems to make Crombie more upset than he already is.

"_I_ have already conducted an investigation," Crombie informs him with a sneer.

"The Commissioner requested that I come here and assist him. I do not think you can object to that, since you are on your way out…" Simon moves aside (I automatically follow him), bows with the slightest bit of exaggeration and gestures for Crombie to pass him.

It is not Simon's habit to back down from a verbal duel with anyone, so I find his behaviour rather confusing. Crombie, judging by his livid colour, is positively infuriated. Fortunately Charity Wyndham prevents any violence from breaking out by putting a restraining hand on his shoulder and whispering something in his ear. She meets the frown he directs at her with a gentle but firm look. For a moment the two seem to be engaged in a silent argument; then Crombie turns to Simon again, this time making a better effort to control himself.

"Very well," he says curtly. His tone of voice still leaves a lot to be desired, but it does not bite as it did before. With that, Crombie storms past and deliberately refuses to meet Simon's gaze. Charity glides along behind him, and shoots me a brief, relieved smile as she goes by. I nod to her. I wish I could handle Simon that well!

When they are gone Simon turns to Theopolous once again. The Commissioner still looks terribly embarrassed, although not so much as he was before. "Shall we?" Simon says, indicating the stairs at the end of the hall with his cane.

Theopolous quickly regains his composure, and clears his throat. "Yes. Yes, let's be on our way." He takes the lead once more, brings us up the stairs and down another hallway to what remains of Lady Verinder's bedchamber and sitting room – which are as much of a wreck as the Museum Obscura was yesterday. He quickly excuses himself to speak to the Verinders and departs, leaving Simon and I by ourselves.

"Why did you do that with Crombie?" I ask as soon as Theopolous is out of earshot.

"Do what?" Simon makes a slow circuit of the sitting room, looking carefully at splintered chairs and a ripped sofa.

"I thought you were going to try to put him in his place," I say. "That's what you _usually_ do – even when it _isn't_ necessary. What you did just now seemed very unlike you."

"Ah, but I _did,_" Simon replies. "Iain Crombie seems to think that he can prove himself my equal by drawing me into an argument with him. I shall not give him the satisfaction."

_So it _wasn't_ unlike you, after all._ I smile. "I suppose I should feel flattered, then."

Simon looks up from his contemplation of a shattered vase. "Why do you say that?"

"Because you let _me_ draw you into arguments all the time."

He seems amused by that. "That is because you argue with me only to prove a _point_, not to prove _yourself_. But since I respect such straightforwardness, you may continue to feel flattered, if you wish."

I would tease him for going against his character by professing to have even a little respect for me, but his remark about _straightforwardness_ reminds me of what I am concealing from him. My good mood is nipped in the bud. Instead of replying to him – for I cannot bring myself to respond as I normally would – I start looking around the room myself, although I have no idea what would constitute a significant detail under these circumstances.

We find no significant clues in Lady Verinder's chambers, or in those of her daughters. Nor do we find out anything new when we question the women themselves – except that it is Lord Verinder, not his wife and daughters, who favours Crombie over Simon. The ladies are quite willing to cooperate, while Lord Verinder, though he makes no overt objection to their doing so, glowers quietly at us all the while. When Simon concludes by giving him a business card, Lord Verinder takes it in the same brusque and reluctant way that Helena Romanelli did the day before.

We have at least made one significant observation, or so we hope: while the gargoyles that robbed the Museum Obscura killed Brother Mallory, the ones that robbed the mansion did not go out of their way to harm Lady Verinder and her daughters. Simon says that may just be because the ladies got out of the way in time, and Brother Mallory did not, but he can think of a few other possible reasons for this discrepancy. Unfortunately he has no reason as yet to favour any one of those possibilities over the rest, which means that no amount of questioning, cajoling or badgering will convince him to disclose said possibilities to me.

Judging by the look on Simon's face when we ride back from the Verinders' to the Residence, he has not found anything else though his efforts, or at least anything he didn't anticipate finding. But he had other plans for investigating the case even before we got word of these new incidents – so perhaps coming up empty-handed will not be so bad for him.

The constable lets us off near the front entrance of the Residence. A familiar boy sitting on the steps catches my eye – Cecil, with his pet monkey Jennifer sitting in his lap. He straightens up and grins at me as I approach. Jenny squeaks and raises a hand in greeting.

Simon joins us as soon as he has bid farewell to the constable – policemen are included on the short list of people he considers worthy of politeness. Jenny _eeks_ at him and scrambles onto Cecil's shoulder as the boy stands up. "Afternoon, boss, Miz Emma," he says, making a gesture that falls somewhere between a salute and a tug of his hat-brim. "I gots some intrestin' news from Bartlesby."

"Inside." The word is not a command so much as a strong suggestion. In one smooth motion Simon takes his ring of keys from a coat pocket, unlocks the front door and pulls it open. He gestures for Cecil and myself to enter. As soon as we get inside, Jenny jumps off Cecil's shoulder, runs to the stairs and proceeds to amuse herself by scampering up and down them.

"She won't run off, will she?" I ask Cecil. Simon will be _very_ displeased if we have to chase Cecil's pet monkey through the Residence – especially since Jenny has a habit of pilfering things.

Cecil shakes his head vigorously. "Naw, Miz Emma, she'll stay close by. She just likes dem big stairs an' all."

Jennifer _eeks_ in agreement as she slides down one of the banisters.

Simon, having closed and locked the front door, turns to Cecil. "Now then – what message do you have from Bartlesby?" he asks. Despite Cecil's assurances, which he surely must have heard, Simon appears to be keeping an eye on the frolicking Jenny.

"E's been followin' dat Crombie so-"

I clear my throat loudly and shoot Cecil a warning look.

The boy looks at me and reddens. "pologies, Miz Emma," he says with a humble bob of his head. He turns back to Simon. "Anyways, e's been following Crombie like ya said to," Cecil finishes. "E went to the Adelphi 'bout twelve-thirty, stayed till one. Dunno what 'e was doin' there…"

"_I_ do," Simon says gravely. I'm sure I know, too, and the implications are troubling, to say the least. "Where did he go after that?"

"Back to 'is office, boss. E's still there, far as I know."

Simon nods. "Anything else?" he asks.

Cecil shrugs. "Dat's all, boss. Bartlesby is still keepin' an eye on 'im, though. If ya don't mind my askin'…"

"I'm afraid I _do_ mind," Simon tells him.

"Oh." Cecil looks apologetic. "Sorry. Just curious."

Simon nods. "Keep a watch on him, and report back to me this evening." He reaches into his pocket and fishes out a few shillings, which he gives to Cecil. "If he goes back to the hotel, or any of the other places I mentioned, tell me _immediately._"

"Yessir." Cecil pockets the coins and turns to face the stairs. "Oy, Jenny! Time to go!"

Jenny, who was gleefully sliding down the banister, stops abruptly to look at her young master, then jumps to the floor and reluctantly plods back to him.

"Cecil," I say, bending a little so I'll be closer to his level, "Would you and Jenny like something to eat before you go?"

"Thanks, Miz Emma, but I 'ad me lunch already," he says. "An' I can't stay. Bartlesby'll need me if somethin' 'appens."

"Are you sure?" I ask as Simon unlocks the front door again.

"Yes, Miz Emma." He tugs his hat-brim at me as Jenny climbs onto his shoulder again. "I'll see ya tonight," he says. Simon opens the door, and Cecil scampers back out into the street.

"Twelve-thirty," Simon mutters thoughtfully as he closes and locks the door. "He must have gone there directly from the Verinders'."

Now that Cecil is gone, I am free to glare accusingly at Simon. "You didn't _tell_ me you were having Crombie watched."

"Only since this morning – before you woke up." Simon heads for the stairs. I move quickly to follow him. "His talent more than makes up for his lack of training, and he's just clever enough to be dangerous. I did not think it likely that he would find out about what happened at the cathedral yesterday, but I wanted to make sure."

"That I understand," I say, marching up the stairs after him, "but for the thousandth time…"

"Three hundred and eighth, actually…"

"…you should _tell_ me these things!" I finish as I reach the top of the stairs. Only then do his words register on me. Bewildered, I pause for a moment, then scramble to catch up with him. "Three hundred and eighth? You kept count?"

"It's more of an estimate. A _close_ estimate." Simon doffs his cloak and then his coat, throwing them over one arm as he approaches the hall closet. He opens the door and steps inside to hang them up.

I stand outside, my arms crossed menacingly (or as menacingly as I can manage, anyway). "You know that I've said it _approximately_ three hundred and eight times, and yet the actual message has failed to sink in," I say dryly. "I'm absolutely _awed_. I doubt that anyone in the world can equal you for sheer obstinacy."

Simon steps out into the hall and closes the door. "_You_ have made the same protest to me three hundred and eight times, without making any impression on me _or_ harbouring any reasonable hope of doing so, yet I have no doubt that you will continue to protest in the future. I may have no _equal_ in this world for sheer obstinacy, but _you_, Miss Bishop, are quite clearly my superior." With that he turns around and continues down the hallway.

Under normal circumstances Simon would have been (reluctant though I am to admit it) absolutely right. As it is, there isn't really much of a future in which I can upbraid him for keeping things from me. I do not have the heart – or, I think, the right – to reply to him as I normally would.

_Did I _ever _really have the right to demand that he not conceal things from me, since I have concealed so many things from him myself?_

I've never considered that question before. A sharp, icy, nauseating sensation grows in the pit of my stomach as I follow Simon into the kitchen.

Lunch, like last night's supper, is simple and taken at a later hour than usual. We get some food out of the icebox, set our places and sit down. I am not really interested in the salad and cold cuts on my plate, but I force myself to eat. Experience from my theatre days taught me the art of behaving naturally in the face of anxiety: I have made use of that skill many times during the past three years, and I am exceedingly grateful for it now.

Apropos of behaving naturally...neither Simon nor I have said anything since I failed to respond to his jibe in the hallway. Had our places been reversed I would have been worried enough to ask why he had suddenly gone quiet. Simon has not made such an inquiry of me.

But I can no longer delude myself into thinking that he's overlooked my odd choices of words, or my silences. There have been too many of both today. _So why hasn't he said anything about it?_

Perhaps he thinks I am doing what he often does – keeping my reasons to myself until I am ready to explain them. But that is not usually my way, and it is not in Simon's nature to refrain from asking questions when there are secrets to be found out. There must be some other explanation.

I remember his question of me three weeks ago; _just who _is_ Emma Bishop?_ Simon had never inquired about my past before, and has not done so since. I still haven't figured out why he only asked me once, and why he did not press me when I refused to answer. Perhaps his personal experience has instilled in him the belief that _some_ secrets are better left alone.

_Or he may be as afraid of hearing the answer as I am of divulging it._ The thought comes as if out of some dark, mostly neglected place in my mind. _But that doesn't make sense…actually, it does_. Danik had as strong an effect on Simon's life as he did on mine; Simon may not know the details as I do, but he may have drawn some connection between my powers and…

I realize that I am not doing myself any good by indulging in such speculation. What I _should_ do is focus on the current case – for the sake of duty and my sanity both.

Simon provides me with unwitting and invaluable assistance in this regard by broaching the topic himself. "The crimes at the Eismores' and the Verinders' did not provide us with any useful information," he begins, "so we shall consult Adeline and – brace yourself – Fenton Crombie, as originally planned."

"I hope you've figured out a way for us to talk to Crombie by now?" Were it not for my other concerns I would find _that_ issue quite troubling.

Simon leans forward in his chair and folds his hands on the tabletop. "Fenton Crombie describes himself as the world's foremost grottecologist – and he demonstrates his son's flair for _un_professional rivalry whenever someone dares to challenge him for that distinction. One incident in particular comes to mind: some years ago, a prominent natural scientist named Dr. Martin Fitzhugh came to Partington to study the gargoyles himself. After two years of observing, dissecting and experimenting with the creatures, he gave a lecture on his findings at the university."

"And what exactly does this have to do with your plan?" I ask.

"You'll find out if you listen," Simon answers curtly. He pauses to take a sip from his water glass before continuing. "I attended the lecture. Mr. Crombie came as well, but only so that he could humiliate Dr. Fitzhugh by interrupting and arguing with him at every turn." Simon pauses for a sip from his glass of water before continuing. "The fact that he was embarrassing himself into the bargain did not seem to deter him in the least."

"So you think he'll be falling all over himself to help us if he thinks we're going to consult someone else?"

Simon leans back in his chair and does his _geste de pense._ "Something like that. But what I have in mind is a bit more…_interesting._"

_Why do I suspect you mean "interesting" in the sense of the Oriental curse?_


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Expressing my doubts about Simon's plan did little good. He asked me if I could think of anything better; I was forced to own that I could not. In that case, he said, I should stop complaining about it.

We will not be carrying out the plan for a while in any case; Simon assigned an agent to check on the elder Crombie as well as the younger (again, without informing me until well after the fact), and has found that he is away on business and will not be back in Partington until tomorrow. In the meantime, we must speak to Adeline; what Simon has told me of her makes me quite curious indeed.

It strikes me as humorous that Simon, who can easily obtain an audience with the most prominent men in the city on no notice whatsoever, has to go through so much trouble to speak to one little girl.

We don't have to go through as much of the aforesaid trouble as we did last time, but what we _do_ go through is bad enough – at least for me. The heat wave makes going outside for anything a challenge, and in Wollmere Park one must contend with the additional nuisance of the many biting insects that make their homes in the park's drought-browned foliage.

"Are you sure she'll be here?" I ask Simon as I swat at an offending mosquito. We've been round the park twice and haven't seen a sign of Adeline or her governess. "If I were her mother, I'd be too worried about her contracting heat sickness to let her out of the house." Judging from the noticeable lack of children engaged in play here – there are a few, but not nearly as many as is usual for this time of year – a number of parents share that concern.

"Then let us be thankful that you are _not_ Adeline's mother, and that Mrs. DeWinter does not share your concerns about heat sickness," Simon replies. "She's more concerned about her daughter's tendency towards mischief when she is not otherwise occupied."

I do not think that is such a good excuse, but then again, I suppose that a psychic would be capable of getting up to some rather unusual kinds of mischief. Something involving poltergeists, perhaps.

At this point we are passing through a patch of woods (though it's not really big enough to merit the term "woods"), where the winding flagstone path is bordered by thick trees and shrubs. I can hear the shouts of children on the open green up ahead. Last time we passed through they were mostly scattered about the park, playing hide-and-seek, but judging by their shouts it seems that they have since congregated on the field for a game of tag.

Simon, who is walking ahead of me, comes to an abrupt halt at the edge of the woods and signals for me to stop as well. His attention is fixed on something – or someone – out on the green ahead and to the left. I want to ask what is going on, but think the better of it; if Simon has called a halt because of some potential danger, it would be more prudent of me to keep quiet.

After a tense moment Simon drops his forestalling hand and takes a half-step backward –away from whatever he is observing – so that he is standing right on the border of the path. "Look," he says, still facing out towards the green. "Ten yards from us. The girl in the yellow dress, with the straw bonnet."

Along most of its length the path is just broad enough for two people to walk side by side, but at the exit of the woods the path is squeezed a bit by the pair of gnarled apple trees that flank it. I edge sideways into the space Simon has left me. He puts his hand on my shoulder to keep me from stepping out too far. This restriction forces me to lean sideways at an uncomfortable angle in order to see around the trunk.

There are a number of children running around on the wide green (playing tag, as I suspected), but I manage to spot the girl Simon described almost immediately – Adeline. She is not participating in the game of tag, nor is she skipping rope with the small knot of other girls nearby. Instead she is wandering aimlessly, poking at the ground with a long branch she picked up somewhere, to all appearances completely oblivious to what is going on around her.

A dozen other children engaged in the tag game charge in Adeline's direction in their efforts to evade being caught by "it." She does not seem to notice them, and makes no move to get out of the way. I draw a sharp, nervous breath as the stampeding children collide with her.

Or, rather, they miraculously _fail_ to collide with her. Adeline weaves her way through the stampede, avoiding the other children without any noticeable effort, all the while absorbed in her examination of the ground. I blink in amazement as the small herd of boys and girls runs off, leaving her completely unscathed and still, it seems, completely unaware of their passing.

I haven't even really _met_ the girl yet and I already find her rather unnerving. "How did she _d_o that?"

By now I should know better than to ask hypothetical questions while in Simon's presence – he has a frustrating habit of answering them. "I imagine she does it the same way I did when I was her age," is his cryptic reply.

Surprised, I turn my head to look up and over my shoulder at him – not easy, since I am all but wedged between him and the tree in front of me. "And how did _you…_"

Simon edges past me a bit, so he will be more easily visible from the green, and waves in Adeline's direction. "She's noticed us," he says as he slips back further into the woods. I follow Simon to a spot where the flagstone path is comfortably wide, trying to imagine a juvenile version of him doing what Adeline just did. My rational faculties can easily accept the notion that he did uncanny things of a similar nature on a regular basis during his childhood years. Unfortunately my mind is not, and probably never will be, adequate to the task of imagining Simon as a child.

Adeline materializes between the apple trees that mark the border between the patch of woods and the green. She does not immediately join us at our chosen spot further back along the path – instead she remains where she is for a few seconds. I imagine that she is examining us (or, since she knows Simon, examining _me_), but it is hard to be certain, since the sun is behind her and I can see her only in silhouette. Apparently satisfied with her examination, she tosses aside the branch that she used earlier to probe the ground and walks towards us.

Her features become clearer once she enters the shade of the trees. I expected her to be pale and perhaps a bit unearthly in classic mystical fashion – especially after her activities on the green a minute ago – but in truth she looks quite ordinary. She is by my estimate eight or nine years old. A few wisps of light-brown hair peek out from under her bonnet, framing a button-nosed and childishly plump face. Her round hazel eyes display no sign of unusual perception or wisdom. The way in which she stands at a cautious distance from us, with her feet together and her hands behind her back, is typical of a shy child.

That apparent timidity is shown for an illusion the moment she opens her mouth. "Hello, Thimon." It takes me a moment to pierce through her severe lisp and understand what she's saying. When I do I am shocked by the casual manner of her address – how does this little girl have leave to use Simon's given name?!

Even as I am thinking this, Adeline turns her attention to me. "You mutht be Emma," she concludes (again, it takes me a moment to smooth out her mangled sibilants). I'm not surprised that she knows of me, but I am _very_ surprised to hear her address with the same easy familiarity that she did Simon.

"This is Miss Bishop, yes," Simon confirms. I'm glad that he at least hinted to Adeline the manner in which I _should_ be addressed. Although he doesn't seem to mind the way in which she talks to _him_. Simon turns to me. "Miss Bishop, this is the much-renowned Adeline Bethesma DeWinter."

Simon's deadpan statement provokes a giggle from Adeline. "Pleathed to meet you, Mith Bishop," she says, bobbing a quick curtsey. While this greeting is not perfectly appropriate to the situation, it is appreciably more polite in tone than anything she has said thus far. I'm also becoming more accustomed to her speech, to the point where I can understand it without overstraining my ears or my mind.

I return Adeline's curtsey. "Pleased to meet you as well. I've heard a great deal about you." While I may find Adeline a bit unsettling, I have been curious about her since Simon first mentioned her, and I am glad for the opportunity to satisfy that curiosity.

"Now that we've gotten over the business of introductions, I have a question for you: what do you know about gargoyles?" Though his words are somewhat flippant, Simon's tone of voice indicates his regard for – perhaps even _respect_ for – Adeline.

Her eyebrows lift with mild surprise. "I _knew_ thomething wath going on!" she cries. "They've been worried for thome reathon, but I don't know…." She breaks off as she notices my expression of bewilderment. "I lithten to them thometimeth."

Simon's eyes glitter with a mix of keen interest and amusement. "Then we have obviously come to the right person. How exactly do you 'listen' to the gargoyles?"

Adeline's smile of quiet amusement and sagacity is disturbing to behold on a person of such tender age. "I'd tell you," she says, crossing her arms in a smug fashion, "but I don't think you'd believe me."

To my great astonishment, Simon does not seem in the least irritated by Adeline's non-answer. "If I felt the same way, Adeline, I would not be here seeking your advice. As always, it is the phenomena themselves I am after; whether or not I agree with your _explanations_ of those phenomena is beside the point. Tell me what you know, even if you doubt that I will believe it."

"I don't thee the differenth," Adeline objects, "But if you inthitht…gargoyleth are very thenthitive to mag-" – she glances at Simon – "_pthychic energieth_. More tho than other animalth. Or motht people." The way Adeline speaks gives an impression of maturity, confidence and professional expertise that suffers not at all from her severe lisp. "They altho uthe them to talk to each other. Not with anything like wordth, though. It'th more like…like…" Adeline trails off, frowns in puzzlement, and proceeds to chew thoughtfully on the tip of her right index finger as she searches for the correct word.

I try to help her along. "Feelings? Sensations?"

The girl brightens up and drops her finger from her mouth. "Yeth. _Thenthationth_ is about right. They're alwayth thending out what they thee, thmell, and hear. If one of them ith in trouble, or angry, it thendth that out too. A flock of gargoylth ith like a crowd of people talking all at onth."

Simon is giving Adeline's words very serious consideration – the _geste de pense_ makes that quite obvious. "Is it possible that the gargoyles could organize and execute a collective action, using the sort of communication you described?"

"Thort of," Adeline says. "Thmall groupth or flockth can dethide to move thomewhere, or thtake out and defend their territory. They can't really do anything that needth planning."

"I see. In that case, is it possible to make them do something more complex than they would be capable of doing unaided?'"

Now Adeline's brow furrows with puzzlement and concern. "_How_ complexth, exthactly?"

"Well, there is no quantitative scale for such things, so I will rephrase the question. Can a flock of gargoyles be compelled to, say, break into a house and rob it?"

I can tell from Adeline's expression that though she may not know all the particulars, she now comprehends the gravity of our situation. "I don't know," she answers. "_I_ could get one or two to do trickth, but what _you're_ talking about ith…" She shrugs.

I am no great authority on magic or the supernatural, but I just may know enough to ask the right questions. "Could you conceivably do it, with sufficient practice or focus?" I ask. Simon glances at me with – I wouldn't swear to it – a hint of approval.

"No…well, maybe. Right now I can only manage three at onth, and I can't get them to do that much. I thertainly can't make one thteal thingth."

"By this you mean that making gargoyles commit a robbery would be prohibitively difficult, but not necessarily impossible," Simon says.

Adeline shrugs. "I thuppothe. But whoever'th uthing the gargoyleth ithn't doing it the way _I'd_ do it…" She looks sheepishly at Simon. "Um. Exthept I wouldn't actually…never mind. What I mean ith, it would take a very powerful pthychic to do it my way, and if thomeone like that were in the thity I'd notithe them."

I'm not sure if Adeline's confidence is justified. "What if they're manipulating the gargoyles from somewhere beyond Partington, outside your range?"

"No, no, no," Adeline insists with a vigorous shake of her head. "I don't think anyone could do _that_ no matter how powerful they are. When I try to make gargoyleth do trickth I have to be able to thee them, and if they're more than a hundred yardth away, I can't make them do anything at all. They aren't able to hear me. Even thomeone ten timeth ath powerful ath I am would have to be pretty clothe to make it work."

Simon considers this for a few moments. "Then the one controlling the gargoyles is using some _other_ method."

"I thuppothe." Adeline sighs in disappointment. "But I don't know any other wayth to control gargoyleth. Jutht my way. I'm thorry."

Her air of defeat makes her seem like an ordinary little girl; if she were, I would act on my impulse to comfort her – but I get the distinct impression that she would take my comfort as badly as Simon does. "Do you know anything else that might help us?" I ask.

Adeline pouts and shakes her head. Then she jerks as if slapped and twists around to look behind her, in the direction of the green. I am confused until I pick up on the distant but shrill voice that startled Adeline so. "Addie!" shouts a woman somewhere on the green. "Addie, where are you? Come here this instant!" I know that voice doesn't belong to Adeline's mother; it must be her governess.

"I have to go," Adeline tells Simon with some urgency. "Willa'th about to have a fit."

Simon shoots an irritated glance in the direction of the green. He looks resignedly at Adeline. "As always, I thank you for your assistance. Please remember to keep this conversation to yourself."

"Yeth, I know," Adeline says. "Goodbye Thimon." She turns to me. "You too, Mith Bishop. I'm thorry I couldn't help you."

I try to cheer her a bit with a smile and some reassurance. "That's all right – you've been _very_ helpful. Now go on, before you get into trouble."

Adeline grins at me and nods to Simon before turning around and running back the way she came – but she remembers her manners in time to skid to a stop at the edge of the grove and curtsey to us. Then she spins around again and disappears.

It quickly becomes obvious to me that our educational talk with Adeline has set the gears whirring in Simon's mind. Of course he will not tell me what new track his thoughts are running on. He does give me a hint of his plans in the form of a suggestion that we stop at Panaccio's for dinner on the way back to the Residence, a sure indication that we will be busy tonight.

All but a few bites of Simon's dinner ends up cold on the table, for he is too busy pondering to eat, and does not say more than a dozen words to me in the hour and a quarter between our sitting down in the restaurant and our arrival at the front door of the Residence. If he intends to go into the think tank for the second night in a row, as I fear he does, there is going to be trouble.

"I think I shall do the rounds tonight," he informs me, breaking his long silence as if it had been a pause of no more than a moment. I resist the urge to wince: by "doing the rounds" Simon means going out in disguise, consulting his contacts throughout the city or reconnoitring on his own. It's better than the think tank, but only marginally so.

"Splendid," I grumble. "Have you something worthwhile for me to do while you're out, or am I to sit here twiddling my thumbs?"

"You speak as if the two were mutually exclusive: in this case, they are the same. I need you here to stay here and meet Cecil when he reports in this evening." He smiles in that subtle, mischievous way that I find particularly infuriating. "Don't be so disappointed, Emma – you'll have plenty to do tomorrow."

Ah, how could I forget my upcoming interview with Fenton Crombie? "Oh, _that,_" I say with venomous sarcasm. "I'm positively _breathless_ with anticipation."

Simon does not retaliate in his usual fashion. "If you really wish to make yourself useful at the present moment, you can choose my disguise for this evening," he suggests. Something in his expression makes me certain that he is not teasing me, but instead making a genuine attempt to mollify me.

On the surface the choice Simon offers is a small, meaningless concession – but it reflects a consideration for my feelings that is as touching as it is unexpected. It's almost enough to put me in a good mood. "All right," I say. "What are the options?"

"Anything within reason," Simon answers. "Sailor, beggar, peddler…"

"Old crone?" I suggest saucily.

Simon's petulant frown tells me I've just scored a point against him. "That's only for special occasions."

"Pity. An old man, then?"

"How old?"

"A little over sixty."

"What profession?" He asks the question eagerly, as if he can hardly wait for my answer.

"Let me think…I know, a carpenter. Will I get to see you in this costume?" Simon rarely ever lets me know beforehand when he's going out incognito: often he simply vanishes for a while and I learn about his activities (and his disguise) through inquiry after the fact – if he even chooses to tell me what he's been up to. Either that or I encounter some stranger who, with a wry remark in a familiar voice, will reveal himself to be my partner. The second option is as disconcerting to me as it is amusing to Simon.

But it seems I need not worry about such things this time. "Of course you will," Simon says, as if he can't fathom the reasons for my uncertainty. "I shall never hear the end of it if you don't." With this he turns around and descends the central flight of stairs down into the cathedral's catacombs, where Simon keeps most of his laboratories, his workshops and Lord only knows what else. Halfway down, he looks over his shoulder at me. "Meet me back here in an hour," he says. I smile as he continues down the stairs and vanishes into the shadows.

Once he is out of sight, the pleasantness of the past few minutes collides with the terrible inevitability that has been lurking in the back of my mind all day. I tell myself that I shouldn't worry so much about parting ways with him. Now that Lightbourne and the Prism are gone forever, Simon doesn't need me to protect him from the effects of the malevolent gem…or his own worst impulses, which I suppose are one and the same.

I fail miserably in my attempt to console myself. One way or another, I will be leaving soon. Even if I didn't want my powers back (and I do, for I feel cold and empty whenever I'm aware of their absence), I don't think Danik would let me….

_Are you so sure you still want to go through with this, Emma?_ The thought seems to come out of nowhere, and it feels like a slap in the face. "I haven't done all this for nothing," I snap at myself. "Of course I still want to."

I realize I am speaking aloud to myself and press my hand to my mouth in profound embarrassment – which is, paradoxically, only increased by the fact that there is nobody around to hear me.

I return to the vestibule precisely one hour later, just as Simon ascends the stairs from the catacombs – no longer himself, but a weathered, elderly man dressed in a simple brown suit. His overgrown, iron-grey hair is topped by an all but shapeless chequered cap, and his face is lined and brown from hard work and exposure to the elements. When he stands before me and spreads his hands for my inspection I notice they too are brown and worn-looking, and that his left index finger is wrapped in a bandage. Only his eyes are the same, for he has not chosen to wear coloured lenses on them as he sometimes does.

Simon's costume is so perfectly constructed that for several seconds I am two-thirds convinced he is what he appears to be. Then he shifts his feet and puts his hands in his trouser pockets, assuming a posture that I would have recognized instantly even if I had not already known his true identity beneath the mask, and looks at me with a satisfied expression. This juxtaposition of a stranger's face and a friend's mannerisms is decidedly eerie.

"Well?" he asks, breaking the spell completely and betraying his disguise for what it is: a change of clothing, a wig, and some ingenious application of resin, rubber and makeup. Now I can admire the effect without being unsettled by it.

When I step closer to Simon for a better look at his mask I detect a faint but unmistakable scent on his clothes. "Sawdust." I smile. "Only _you_ would think of something like that." After a moment's consideration I add, "Well, you or a carpenter. The bandage is a nice touch, too."

"The art of disguise, like the art of investigation, requires the utmost attention to detail." Simon makes it sound like a catechism; for him, it probably is. "Apropos of that," he says with a small, mischievous smile, "would you have been able to guess my profession if you had not specified it for me?"

I return his smile with a similar one of my own and throw caution to the winds by making a flippant reply: "Credit me with some intelligence, Simon. After three years of working with you, I can't _possibly_ be ignorant of the fact that you're a detective."

Simon actually chuckles – a very rare occurrence and a pleasant surprise. "Fair enough," he says, "but I shall be a carpenter when I get into character." It is almost no sooner said than done: in a span of heartbeats he seems almost to deflate, becoming somehow shorter and thinner. The rubber-and-resin mask becomes a real, living face in itself, with all the lines and wrinkles of age. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them I half-expect that they will be of a different colour than they were before. They aren't, of course, but they seem profoundly different nonetheless.

Simon – or whoever he has become – grins at me and tugs the brim of his cap. "'Fraid I must be orf now, Miz Emma," he says in a rough brogue that bears no resemblance whatsoever to his real voice. "Got some important bizness t'attend to." I've known for years that he could do things like this, but this is the first time I have actually been impressed by it. On previous occasions I was too upset with him for using this talent to deceive and shock me to really feel anything positive about it.

I smile, curtsey, and play along. "Good evening, then. Come back before twelve – you ought to try and get some sleep tonight." All right, so I was only half playing along.

With that remark I know I have crossed the line. Simon breaks character for a moment and scowls. "Do not play the nursemaid with me, Miss Bishop." He reassumes his false persona almost instantly, makes an about-face and descends into the catacombs, from which he will leave the Residence by some concealed exit. I hope he didn't notice that I was trying very hard not to laugh.


	8. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Though I've become accustomed to Simon's habit of occasionally disappearing without a warning or apology, I always found it upsetting. So I don't understand why fact that he took proper leave of me this time – and with none of his usual…well, his _usual_ until the end – makes me feel worse than I would have if he'd just vanished in his usual way. Perhaps the haze of dread that's been hanging over me since last night (was it only that recently?), having been briefly suspended, is just coming back with a vengeance.

Feeling the need to do something, anything, that will make me feel useful and provide some distraction until Cecil comes, I go back to the library to shelve books. It's a task that requires concentration but not much actual thought, which is ideal for my purposes. Playing librarian lets me spend the interval between Simon's departure and Cecil's arrival in a comfortable trance.

My watch reads a quarter past eight by the time Cecil startles me back into reality by ringing the front-door bell. I would know it was Cecil even if I weren't expecting him – he has a habit of pounding the switch out front several times in rapid succession, holding it down for about ten seconds, then pounding it again, over and over until someone answers the door for him. This distinctive cacophony wreaks havoc on my ears as I make my way to the vestibule.

Jenny greets me with an _eek_ when I open the door. Cecil tips his hat to me with one hand and hold's Jenny's tail in the other to prevent her from jumping off his shoulder and running to the stairs. He comes through the door at my urging.

"Evenin', Miz Emma. Where's da boss?"

"Out doing the rounds," I answer as I close the door.

Cecil is obviously disappointed, but he knows and grudgingly accepts his employer's habits. And, unlike a few of the other agents, he has no problem with reporting to me instead. "Well, when 'e gets back, ya can tell 'im – if y'please, Miz Emma – that Crombie ain't been to da Cathedral, nor da police station, nor 'is dad's place neither."

"That's good news." I _think_ it is, although I find it more puzzling than reassuring. "What has he been up to instead?"

Cecil's answering shrug upsets Jenny, who chatters indignantly as she struggles to keep her perch. "Bin goin' 'round to pawnshops, mostly, an' a few fences. Dunno what for," he says, anticipating my next question.

I don't know what to make of that either, but I hope Simon will. "That's fine. Anything else of interest?"

"Not really. We're still keepin' an eye on Crombie – in shifts, like." He frowns for a moment. "'Tween you an' me, Miz Emma, I dun like it. Spyin' on Crombie, dat is. 'E may 'ave it in for da boss, but 'e ain't a criminal." Cecil looks at me doubtfully. "Is 'e?"

Jenny, sensing something amiss, looks from Cecil to me. "Ook?"

"No, Simon doesn't suspect Crombie of anything – but he has his reasons," I say, half-trying to convince myself as well as Cecil. "He always does, even if he doesn't always tell us what they are."

Cecil frowns and shoves his hands in his pockets. "I know, 's always dat way with da boss. But dis is a bit dodgy – it ain't like 'im."

I share Cecil's discomfort: though I know why Simon is having Crombie followed – and I admit his reasons are valid ones – I also know that even my partner's rather flexible ethics don't usually accommodate something like this. Not _usually_.

"I don't like it either," I confess. "This isn't a permanent arrangement, though. After this case I don't think he'll be doing it again." _I hope not, because I won't be around to make sure._ For the first time it occurs to me that I will be leaving behind not only Simon, but Cecil and Pete and Nell and all the other agents, whom I have come to consider as friends, or at least something close to friends. I quash the cold, wrenching sensation that rises as if to meet the thought.

My reassurances, though they sound doubtful and half-hearted to my own ears, seem to convince Cecil that all will be well. His troubled expression transforms into a smile. "Oh. Dat's all right den, I s'pose."

Cecil accepts two shillings for his services instead of his usual one, but he declines my invitation to supper. While he is fine with accepting extra wages or engaging in (to use his term) "dodgy" entrepreneurial activities or even a bit of extortion, he will not accept charity. In spite of this, and his insistence that he can take care of himself perfectly well, my concern for him always motivates me to offer a little extra help. At least he's more polite about refusing it than Simon is. Cecil promises to report back late tomorrow morning with any news.

With his departure I feel very much alone once more. I wish I knew when to expect Simon back: I can't even make a rough estimate, since any number of factors could affect how long he spends on his incognito outing. He might even come back late just to spite me.

I clench my teeth as boiling, acid fury sweeps over and through me, momentarily darkening my vision. "Damnit, Simon!" Since there's no breakable object close at hand, I settle for slamming my fist against the wall beside the door. _How could you still do this to me, after everything we've been through, when I'm about to leave, how _could _you…_

But he doesn't _know_ I'm leaving, does he?

My right hand, clenched tight against the wall, is smarting. For a moment I can't figure out how my hand got where it is or why it hurts. _Oh. Right. I hit the wall. _With that the last of my anger is driven out by embarrassment. I pull back my hand, spread my fingers and massage it with my other hand. The resulting pain tells me that I'll probably have a bruise come tomorrow. Well, that's what I get for making senseless attacks on the masonry.

I startle at the faint sound of footsteps coming from the catacombs. It takes me longer than it should to realize that Simon has returned earlier than I anticipated. Alarms go off in my head as I think that he may have heard my oath of a minute ago. Memory tells me I did not raise my voice enough to be heard in the catacombs – even Simon's acute sense of hearing could not have picked it up – but even so I am afraid that he heard.

When Simon emerges from the catacombs I am there to meet him at the top of the stairs. He's still wearing the carpenter's clothes, but he has removed and scrubbed away the last traces of the mask, and he has also removed the cosmetics (and the little bandage) from his hands. The shapeless cap and gray wig are nowhere in evidence. Nor is there any trace of the friendly mood he was in when he departed.

"Has Cecil been here yet?" he asks.

"Good evening to you too," I say dryly. "You just missed him." I feel some distant surprise at my sounding so calm in the aftermath of the explosion.

"What did he say?"

I repeat Cecil's message in a less colourful version of the King's tongue. "He's obviously waiting for some stolen items to turn up."

Simon frowns in contemplation and does his _geste en pense_. "It can't be anything from the Verinders'. It's too early for that."

"Or for anything from the Museum Obscura, and I doubt _those_ things would find their way to a pawnshop or a common fence in any case," I point out. "He hasn't been to the Cathedral or the Eismores' today." Something occurs to me. "Simon, do you know if he actually _spoke_ to Miss Romanelli, or could he have been at the Adelphi for some other reason?"

Simon looks as close to surprised as I've ever seen him. "No, I don't know. You have a point there."

"Wait, could you repeat that?" I cup a hand to my ear. "I _couldn't _have heard it correctly."

"Perhaps you should have your ears checked, then. And you should also consider this a lesson about the perils of jumping to conclusions."

I glare at him. "'I' should take it as a lesson? I hope I _do_ need my ears checked."

"No, never mind, your hearing is fine after all," he says dismissively. "I shall have to see if Mr. Crombie is investigating something else. Until I am sure, however, I will continue keeping an eye on him."

"Speaking of that, did you find whatever it was you were looking for while you were out?"

The frown on Simon's face is barely perceptible. "Yes and no."

I wait a moment for him to elaborate. When he doesn't, I cross my arms and purse my lips. "What exactly were you looking for?" _Not that you'll tell me_….

"I was collecting information on Helena Romanelli's activities during her stay in Partington," he says, surprising me with an immediate and clear answer. "Had I known about her arrival here things would have been much simpler, but we were out at the time, and in any case things have been…."

"Wait," I interrupt, holding up my hands. "Is she a suspect?"

For a moment there is weariness, frustration and maybe even helplessness in Simon's expression. "She's the closest thing I have to one at the moment. Even if she isn't involved in this affair, chances are good that she's involved in some other unpleasant business."

I sigh. "Simon, we have a cornucopia of problems on our hands at the moment. Don't start worrying about the ones that haven't even materialized yet."

Simon peers at me. "I call it being reasonably cautious, Miss Bishop." No matter how little time or energy he may have, it's always enough for one more argument.

"You're assuming the worst, and beyond reason."

"I make a habit of assuming the worst because in my experience it almost always happens," he explains, as another might jest that it always rains when one forgets one's umbrella. "Speaking of that, I should retire soon so as to be well-rested for the next catastrophe."

"Ah." I try to keep my smile from being a smug one. "So that's why you came back early? As per my suggestion?"

Simon does _not_ keep the smugness out of his expression. "Of course not. If I start following your advice you'll expect me to do it all the time."

"That's a relief: if you _did_ start listening to me it would probably violate some fundamental law of physics." Opting to quit while I'm ahead and escape before he can get the last word in, I turn to head up the stairs into the inner Residence. "Good night, Simon."

Simon's faint smile is half amusement and half something I can't put my finger on. "Good night," he says. Instead of going downstairs as I go upstairs, he stands watching me for a moment: it's one of those looks that has an almost physical substance to it. When I take a questioning look at Simon, he turns away and walks down the steps, shaking his head absently as if throwing away some idle consideration.

Feeling puzzled and suddenly very tired, I think that I might do well to go to bed early myself.

I'm beginning to nod off when the hansom cab jumps and rocks as the wheels hit a rut in the cobblestones – a rude but much-needed awakening. To prevent myself falling asleep again after the shock has passed, I rub my right hand, which, while not bruised from last night's encounter with the wall, is sore to the touch. The motion and the dull pain will keep me awake, if not exactly alert.

Today, like yesterday, started out rather badly. For the second night in a row I did not sleep much or well. I took it as a given that Simon would notice and incorporate it into the general pattern of my odd behaviour since yesterday. I also took it as a given that he would not ask me if something was wrong, because (as he once told me) such questions are usually pointless niceties, and he will only ask them if he honestly cares about what the answer will be. He added that, in my case, he expected me to inform him that something was amiss instead of waiting for him to ask about it.

Why is it that the _one time_ I depended upon this bit of eccentricity, instead of being vexed by it, Simon had to go against his character and express his concern? He did it in a roundabout, disingenuous sort of way, but his object was unmistakable. I chose to be reticent and evasive, the way he would have been had our positions been reversed. Fortunately he did not press the matter, as I would have done.

The hansom pulls to the side of the road and stops outside an elegant brick house on the corner – my destination. I push my concerns to the back of my mind (which has become very cluttered of late) and focus on the problem at hand. In my view, Simon's scheme will depend upon luck as much as anything else. Simon, on the other hand, has absolute confidence in his plan and (implicitly) upon my ability to carry it out. As a general rule, I've found, those of his plans that seem most outrageous tend to be his most successful. Even so I have my reservations: I'll do what he asks, but I'll do it with a prayer for good luck.

I get out of the cab and pay the driver. As he leaves I approach the front steps of the house, stop to gather my courage and make the aforementioned prayer under my breath. I start thinking about all the ways this could go wrong. I'm not really afraid to face Crombie himself, because the worst he can do is rant me out of his house or threaten to summon the police. What makes me anxious is the prospect of disappointing Simon.

But I have to go in before I can be kicked out, and I have to be kicked out before I can disappoint my partner. So I tell myself what I told him last night – there's no point in worrying about problems that haven't materialized yet.

Trying very hard to keep that in mind, I ring the doorbell and wait a short eternity for someone to answer.

My first impressions upon entering Fenton Crombie's study are of dimness, clutter, and a substantial olfactory monument to hundreds of pipes' worth of shag tobacco. The maid who showed me in shuts the door behind me, leaving me in the room with piles of books and papers, curios, assorted pieces of machinery and Fenton Crombie himself.

He stands in front of the wide window in the opposite wall, which faces out onto the back garden and lets in the morning sunlight. Because of this I can see him only in silhouette: he is thin and wiry, a bit below the middle height, and stands like an army officer at ease. The fact that he is meeting me here rather than in the parlour is I suppose meant to be a little insulting and (especially considering the state of the room) somewhat intimidating, as is his use of the light to keep me from seeing his face. The insult means little, because I expected it – and after having been around Simon for so long I find the attempt to intimidate me almost laughable.

Crombie is a bit less than three yards away from me. I consider approaching him or finding an angle from which I can see him more clearly, but I decide against it. If I don't tread carefully, I will be finished before I've begun.

I make a wary curtsey and feel relief when Crombie obliges me with a slight nod, producing a brief gleam of light from the lenses of his spectacles. "Good afternoon, Miss Bishop," he says dryly. He sounds much like his son, except that his voice is weathered with age and that large quantity of pipe tobacco, which, in a different incarnation, now saturates the air of this room. "I must admit to being very curious as to why you have called on me." Which means he's curious enough to listen to my explanation, but it had better be a good one.

"Sir," I begin, trying to strike a balance between the pleasant and the serious, "I assume you've heard about the robbery at the Verinders'?" He could hardly have missed it – the "Gargoyle Robbery," as the Penny Arcadian has called it, didn't make yesterday's evening edition but was on the front page of every newspaper in the city this morning.

My eyes are beginning to adjust to the darkness. I can make out Crombie's features just enough to see his eyebrows lift with curiosity and surprise. "Of course," he replies with less of an edge in his voice than before. But that edge comes back freshly sharpened with his next words: "So Archard sent you to consult me about this, did he?" _And why should I help him?_

Now to put Simon's plan into action. "No sir," I answer matter-of-factly. "Quite the contrary. He was very much against it."

Crombie lifts a hand to adjust his spectacles, which flash with captured light. "Hmph. No wonder you didn't inform me beforehand of your visit." The hand leaves his glasses and rejoins its counterpart behind his back. "He didn't think it worth a try, I suppose." He sounds disappointed. I think perhaps he would have advised Simon had my partner requested it himself, but only to put him in an awkward position.

"I don't know what he thought. He rarely explains his reasons to me," I say with unfeigned irritation.

My remark seems to interest Crombie further, as I hoped it would. "So to make a long story short, you came here against your employer's wishes. That's quite a chance you're taking."

I bite back the urge to correct him with _partner._ This would not be a good time. "A calculated risk, sir. I think you're the best person to ask for advice on this matter, but Simon believes a certain researcher at the university could – "

"Doctor Slidell!" Crombie speaks the name like a curse as he throws his hands in the air. "I've been studying gargoyles since that pompous fool was in nappies and he thinks that just because _he _has a degree in biology and I don't…." He stops in the middle of his tirade. Suddenly he is adjusting his glasses and clearing his throat. "My apologies, Miss Bishop."

"That's…quite all right," I assure him, hiding my feeling of triumph behind a mask of fading shock. "Please forgive me – I didn't mean to upset you."

Crombie shakes his head and waves dismissively as he ambles away from the window and approaches me, closing the gap between us to a friendlier distance of a yard or so. No longer backlit, he looks smaller and almost harmless. In most respects he resembles his son but for being somewhat shorter, thinner and more lined with age. His short hair, beard and neatly clipped moustache are grey-streaked white. A pair of owlish tortoiseshell-framed spectacles is perched on his aquiline nose and a tiny silver gargoyle pin twinkles in the centre of his tie. He does not look like he could be responsible for the chaos in this study or the indignant fit of temper I witnessed a moment ago. Only the tobacco stain on his left thumb, which I see when he adjusts his spectacles yet again, connects him to any aspect of this room.

"In any case," I begin, as if nothing had happened, "since he would not go to you, I am here myself. As you said, you have studied gargoyles more thoroughly and for longer than anyone else. When the papers, the city authorities or most of the university students have questions about gargoyles, they come to you." _Careful, Emma – don't overdo it._

I think I administered just the right dose of flattery. Crombie draws himself up proudly, making me think of a sparrow imitating an eagle. "Well, Miss Bishop, you at least are sensible enough to have come to the right person. Because I consider myself an honourable man and a good citizen, and because you have asked politely – and because that buffoon Slidell doesn't know enough to tell you anything useful – you shall have all my knowledge as a grottecologist at your disposal."

That wasn't exactly easy, but Simon was right when he said it would be easier than I thought (though I'll die before I ever tell him that). "Thank you, Mr. Crombie." The smile I give him is one that I've always found quite effective for convincing someone to trust me – but whenever I do it deliberately, as now, I feel like a bit of a cheat; often when I do it spontaneously I incur mockery or mild scolding from Simon.

"Now then," he says, going to a bookshelf over to my left and proceeding to pull down some volumes from it, "what sort of information are you looking for?" He jerks as if he has just remembered something. "Oh! Excuse me…" he places his stack of books on a nearby desk and takes a half-step away before he notices that the books are falling over. Crombie adjusts them, makes sure they are stable, and darts to the other side of the study, where a small couch and a few chairs – piled high with books, papers and other paraphernalia – are arranged in a semicircle around the fireplace. He takes an unidentifiable and apparently half-finished mechanical device from a ladder-back chair and places it on the floor before pulling the chair across the room, closer to the desk. I cannot decide whether the abrupt change in his demeanour towards me is more bizarre or amusing.

"Here, here, please sit down." Crombie waves me to the chair and goes back to browsing the shelves and piles of books. I take the offered seat, watching as he gathers his materials. While his books are not arranged according to any system I can make out – much like Simon's library pre-Holey Thursday – he finds whatever he needs without searching for it.

I realize that I should start asking my questions about now. "We know that what the gargoyles did at the Verinders' is quite abnormal for them – not to mention alarming. I'm not sure if one could train them to do something like that…"

"To break into a house and steal things, perhaps," Crombie interjects, "but not that way. Trained gargoyles would not have caused such destruction in the process." He puts down the last of the relevant books on the desktop and pauses to remove his spectacles and wipe them with a handkerchief. "There's a rather suspicious combination of deliberate action and chaos….very sorry, Miss Bishop, I shouldn't have interrupted you." Crombie replaces his glasses.

"That's what Simon and I thought," I agree, thinking that it's safe to mention my partner in this context. "Our theory is that someone is controlling them directly through means we have yet to determine."

"Ah!" Crombie deftly pulls a slim black leather-bound book from the middle of the pile on the desk without toppling the volumes resting on it. "You're in luck. I recently discovered something that might be of use to you. In fact, I plan to publish a monograph on the subject." He opens the book close to its end and starts flipping pages. From what I can see, the volume is a ruled notebook, filled with what I assume to be Crombie's handwriting.

"There it is," he says, finding the correct page and tapping it with his finger. He clears his throat in preparation for a lecture. I've discovered by now that he likes to hear himself talk, but at least he's apologetic about it. "You see, these days gargoyles only inhabit two places on Arcadia – Partington and the island of Irandoa. Before Mayor Jenkens brought the first mating pair here forty years ago, they lived only on that island, or so popular theory has it.

"However, I have reason to believe that this may not be the case. I have had the good fortune to find a record in the Bibliotheque Royale in Lutèce that _proves_ that there were gargoyles there until about two centuries ago."

"Two centuries? But I thought they had only been around for – " I catch myself. "Never mind." I had been under the impression that Miranda had made the things, and she had arrived on Irandoa only a little less than a century ago. Perhaps some variety of gargoyles existed on the island before she came, and she used them as a template for her own creations.

"In a way, you're right – they weren't called gargoyles at the time. Instead they were called devilkin, or the equivalent in other languages. From the sketches on record, it seems they only had pecks, not the varieties we have in Partington today." _Well, that supports my theory._

"I see. How did they end up in Lutèce, though? And why aren't they there any longer?"

Crombie taps his open book again. "You've heard of Philipe St. Martin, I presume?"

"The man who first circumnavigated the globe, yes."

"On one of his lesser-known voyages he found the isle of Irandoa and brought some gargoyles back with him – as I said, only pecks. Couldn't fit any of the larger ones, I suppose. He gave them to Queen Diane, who kept them in a menagerie. They escaped and within a few years…." Crombie concludes with a shrug, leaving the rest unsaid. Every native Partingtonian knows that gargoyles breed like rabbits and spread like rats.

"As for why they disappeared," Crombie continues, "_that_ is related to your question about how they can be controlled, although I'm not sure how much of it to believe myself." He fiddles with his spectacles for the umpteenth time. "A century later, during the reign of King Martin IX, the royal alchemist set in motion a plot to usurp control of the kingdom. Part of this plot – the _interesting_ part – involved using the gargoyles to spread panic. The alchemist made some sort of amulet from carved gargoyle bones, which he used to control the creatures."

Though my rational mind can only treat this bit of information with scepticism, my detective's instinct latches onto it as a significant clue. I am tortured by the sense that I'm missing something important. "So what happened to the gargoyles?"

Crombie closes his book. "The alchemist managed to cause a lot of trouble with them. Eventually he was exposed as a traitor and hung. King Martin put a bounty on the gargoyles, and they were decimated within a few months." He shakes his head sadly. "The poor creatures. It wasn't really their fault."  
"What of the amulet?"

"It was lost," Crombie says. "To this day nobody knows where it is. I know that's not much, but it's all I know about controlling gargoyles." With deliberate care he puts the book down on the desk and smiles proudly at me. "Do you have any other questions for me?" he asks, eager as a schoolboy.

That nagging feeling grows more intense, becoming a maddening, unscratchable itch in the back of my mind. I stand up from my chair. "No, sir. Thank you very much for your help. If you can think of anything else, please contact me," I say, withdrawing a business card from my handbag and passing it to him with a polite curtsey.

I gently turn down Fenton Crombie's request that I stay for an early tea and, with considerable relief, let him escort me out of the musty study and to the front door, where I take my leave of him before hailing a cab. That went better than I thought it would, but the nervousness I came in with is not at all dissipated. Quite the contrary: experience has taught me that things only run _this_ smoothly when they are headed for disaster.

Simon is standing by the window gazing out on the city when I enter the study to give my report. He looks over his shoulder at me as I come in. "Well?"

"He fell for it," I answer, smiling in quiet triumph.

"As I knew he would," Simon says, turning to face me. "What did he tell you?"

Feeling rather miffed at his utter lack of gratitude, I purse my lips, fold my arms and shoot him a piercing look, which me meets with a level, unaffected gaze. A few seconds pass before I break the silence. "What about 'good work, Emma,' or perhaps 'thank you, Emma'?"

"What about it?"

_I'll give you "what about it."_ "Your plan, brilliant though it may have been, depended upon my being able to carry it out. Would it hurt for you to admit _that_ much?"

Simon scowls with irritation. "It's what I pay you for."

In light of recent events, this otherwise annoying remark becomes a stinging insult. I'm sure he didn't mean it that way, but that hardly mollifies me: he should know better than to say something like that to his partner. I want to tell him that, or say that his words were uncalled for; somehow the closest I can get is, "Not enough to forgo the occasional expression of gratitude." And so I make myself complicit in his crime of pretending that nothing has changed.

Deciding that this conversational track can only end in grief, I return to business and recount my conversation with Fenton Crombie word for word; Simon would be afraid of missing details if I were to simply paraphrase or summarize. Simon paces the floor while I speak, his brow furrowed in thought. Much of the time he does his _geste de pense._ He almost never looks at me, but I know I have his full attention.

When I mention the amulet, he freezes in place and looks wide-eyed at me with something close to alarm. I fall silent and question him with a worried look, but he waves for me to continue. Evidently he's come to a conclusion, and is following his own advice in making sure he hasn't _jumped_ to it. I hasten to finish repeating Crombie's advice.

Simon is already standing beside the table on which we keep the telephone (or, at least, the one in this room). As soon as I have told him everything he seizes it as if he fears it might scurry away and puts the receiver to his ear. "Hail us a cab," he tells me. "I'll be along in a minute. Hurry!"

I have been given these urgent instructions often enough in the past to understand – if only vaguely – what they entail, and I know better than to ask questions. With all possible speed I rush out of the study and down the stairs. Fortunately I went directly to Simon after returning from Fenton Crombie's, so I don't need to change clothes or even fetch a hat. I fly down the vestibule stairs and out the front door, skid to a stop at the curb and look up and down the street for a cab.

There's a hansom just turning the corner; I flag it down frantically and barely let it stop before yanking open the door and clambering into the back seat. "I'm waiting for someone. He'll be here shortly," I say breathlessly, my words clipped and tumbling over each other in a sense of haste without direction. "Be ready to move as soon as he gets in. I don't know where yet." The bewildered driver, knowing an emergency when he sees it and perhaps curious as to what will happen next, nods and watches the entrance, as I do – but he's watching with his hands white-knuckled on the reins, and I with my lower lip between my teeth, listening to my heart pounding in my ears.

After an eternal three minutes Simon bursts out of the front door, tugging his coat into place. He bounds down the front steps and across to the hansom cab. Somehow he always manages to jump into the seat and close the door behind him in the same smooth motion, especially when he's in a hurry. The cabdriver has the horse moving as soon as my partner's feet leave the pavement.

"The waterfront, pier nineteen, or as close as you can get," Simon instructs him in much the same voice I did a few minutes ago. I brace myself, because I know what's coming next. "A guinea if you get us there in under fifteen minutes!"

"Yessir!" the driver answers eagerly as he whips his horse up to well beyond a safe and sane speed. Only a very few people in Partington can get away with something like this, and only Simon seems to do it without any reservation or apology whatsoever.

Times such as these bring to mind a particularly satisfying and vivid recollection: shortly after Simon and I started working together, a reporter asked me in a rather condescending way whether I found such madcap races through the city to be frightening. I answered quite truthfully that, on the contrary, I considered them one of the most enjoyable aspects of my work. Instead of shutting my eyes and cowering in terror as I know a proper lady should, I watch out the window and savour every bump, near miss and hairpin turn.

After all, this will probably be the last such ride I ever take.

According to the _Crossgen Illustrated Guide,_ the Mayor Jenkens of Partington imported the first breeding pair of gargoyles from their native habitat in the Balkans. In the series, however, they originated on the isle of Irandoa, and Partington is the only other place where they can be found. I'm with the series on this, not the _Guide_. The "forty years" bit is my own invention, since the time at which the gargoyles were introduced to Partington is not mentioned in the series or the _Guide_.


	9. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

It's difficult to have a conversation when you're riding in a hansom cab that's threading through city streets at top speed, but it's one of many skills I've perfected over the past three years. "I suppose," I begin, raising my voice over the rattle of the cab wheels, "one of the things you did on your outing last night was find out the schedules for passenger ships to Calabria, and a few minutes ago you phoned the Adelphi and learned that Miss Romanelli had checked out. Which explains our destination. And of course you alerted the police," I add as we narrowly avoid a collision with an omnibus going in the opposite direction.

Simon nods, maintaining perfect composure and balance despite the bumping, rattling and swaying of the cab. "Since you know who we're after, I take it you've cracked the case on your own." He doesn't sound impressed, but he doesn't sound as if he expected any less of me, either. I suppose I should take it as a compliment.

"I think I've got it." I am convinced that one of the many bumps on our ride shook something loose in my mind and made all the pieces come together. It's not a theory I plan to share with Simon. "We shall just have to see if I'm right." Our cab swerves left so sharply that I think one of the wheels has lifted off the cobbles.

We reach the waterfront in a little over ten minutes. Upon seeing the crowds around the pier, Simon tells the driver to stop about a hundred yards away. He would only do this if he wanted to observe the situation before involving himself in it, which means that events may be taking a course different from what we expected. Or, at least, he suspects as much. Simon and I fling open the doors the moment the hansom comes to a stop, Simon with the driver's payment already in hand. He hands the promised guinea to the driver as I hurry toward the pier. Though I have a good head start on him, it takes him no time at all to catch up.

We slow our pace as we get closer to the curious crowd, which is held back by a cordon of police ringing the pier. Instead of pushing his way through, Simon hangs back, not calling attention to himself. It's easy for him to watch the events transpiring on the pier by looking over other people's heads, but I am not nearly tall enough, and I can't hear what's going on. I insinuate myself into the crowd and quietly make my way closer to the row of constables holding back the observers, a process that requires a judicious mix of pushing, dodging and apologizing.

I find the scene before me to be somewhat alarming, because it includes Iain Crombie and Charity Wyndham, who have gotten here before us. They are standing not a stone's throw away, at the edge of the pier. I glance at the ship moored there, a steamer called _Lucca._ Passengers and sailors are gazing down from the deck. On the pier, not quite halfway between the waterfront and the steamer's gangplank, stands Helena Romanelli, her dark blue travelling dress blowing in the wind off the water and her thin, pale face on the edge of a snarl.

Crombie's stance suggests that he is afraid Miss Romanelli might charge at him – a fear that does not seem at all irrational to me, considering what I know of the woman's temper. "I found the thief earlier today," he is saying. "He did me the courtesy of confessing everything. Apparently he has been stealing from the hotel for weeks, but I am most concerned with what he stole from your room only yesterday." He nods at Charity Wyndham, who takes something out of her handbag. Though I can't see the necklace clearly from this distance, I recognize the sheen of silver and the glint of mother-of-pearl.

"How exactly does this concern me?" Romanelli snaps. "That's not mine."

"I should say not," Crombie agrees. "It belongs to Miss Danielle Verinder." This sets off astonished murmurs in the crowd around me. I am as unsettled as they are, but for a different reason – I'm wondering how much Crombie knows about the whole business.

Crombie takes the necklace from his assistant and slowly advances on Helena Romanelli. "I am _very_ interested in learning how this got from the Verinders' mansion to your hotel room in the space of a few hours."

"You might as well tell him, Miss Romanelli." Simon slips through the police line to the right of me, ignoring all the wide-eyed stares turned upon him as he strides casually to the pier. "If _you_ don't, _I_ will."

_You certainly know how to make an entrance, Simon._ I slip through the police line myself, hearing a brief protest cut short when the constables recognize me, and manage to catch up with Simon without seeming to hurry, although I think I owe some of that accomplishment to his relaxed pace. Miss Romanelli's eyes are wide as saucers behind her spectacles, Charity Wyndham blinks at us as if she is not sure of her own sanity, and Crombie's expression is one of pure, gaping shock.

Miss Romanelli regains control of her countenance as Simon and I draw even with Crombie and Charity, who are too flabbergasted to object. After a few seconds a blood-chilling smile spreads across her face. "Ah, so you have figured it out, yes? Getting away with this would have embarrassed you, but it would not have been as interesting. I was afraid you would disappoint me – after all, certain people _have_ been saying that you have been, how goes the saying, 'off your game' lately…."

Simon's expression hardens almost imperceptibly. Otherwise he does not acknowledge Miss Romanelli's jab at him. "I was mistaken about the timing," he says in a low voice. "Brother Mallory was not knocked unconscious by the gargoyles. _You_ knocked him out, and perhaps made it look as if he had been pushed." Charity and Crombie are utterly bewildered, but I am quite satisfied at hearing my own speculations confirmed. "Then you took the amulet. I wonder, did you slip out of the vespers service, or did you use it while you pretended to pray?"

It occurs to me that there are scores of gargoyles around the docks. I hope Simon knows what he's doing, because under these circumstances provoking the Viscontessa is also courting disaster. "The second one," she says casually. "Now that you know _how _and _when_, would you be interested in knowing _why?_"

"You are obviously set on telling me, and I have no objection to hearing it."

Helena Romanelli's contorts into a vicious expression. "I knew the amulet was in the Museum Obscura. I also knew that by using it this way I would be sure to get your attention. The money and jewellery is just a side benefit. I want revenge for your humiliation of my family, Archard," she snaps, "not mere baubles."

"You chose a rather baroque method for your revenge," Simon remarks. "Melodramatic, even. And if you do it now" – he gestures at the line of police behind us – "it will only worsen your troubles. Just give yourself up and spare us all the inconvenience."

The Viscontessa scoffs at him. "Sparing myself I do not care about. Sparing you would defeat the purpose of my whole endeavour."

I realize that I have inadvertently stepped closer to Simon, perhaps for protection. Miss Romanelli thrusts a hand into the satchel at her side. There is no doubt in my mind as to what she's reaching for.

"Everyone take cover!" Simon shouts. I hear cries from the crowd behind me, and from the ship's deck, which is rapidly clearing as the passengers and crew heed Simon's warning. Miss Romanelli pulls something out of her satchel, a bizarre construction of ivory so misshapen and strange that it hurts even to look at. The thing is carved with runes and designs that seem to crawl like insects over the surface of the yellowed bone.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice that the nearby gargoyles are turning their attention to us, and the ones flying out over the sea are turning in our direction. There are quite a lot of them. _I wish I still had my power, then I could _do _something…._

Simon grabs my arm. "Run," he orders me.

"But what about…."

With a push and a shake of his head Simon sends me in the direction of some stacked crates a stone's throw away. I find Charity running alongside me. Looking over my shoulder, I see Crombie charging Miss Romanelli with his cane held up as if to strike her, and the glint of a pistol in Simon's hand. That unaccustomed sight frightens me as much as the massing gargoyles, which are diving at Simon, Crombie and myself. Amidst their shrieks and caws I can barely make out Simon yelling for Crombie to get out of the way.

A griff swoops at Charity Wyndham with a savage cry. She manages to evade it but in doing so loses her balance. I halt to grab her shoulders and haul her to her feet with a strength I didn't know I possessed.

"Look out!" she cries, pointing over my shoulder. I turn in time to see a trio of rakes bearing down on us. Without thinking I drop to the ground, taking Charity with me, and roll out of the way, feeling the breeze of the creatures' flapping wings as they barely miss us. Together Charity and I scramble on all fours for the relative safety of a nearby stack of crates. We take shelter between it and an overturned fishing boat.

Though I may lack my powers, I am by no means helpless. I find a loose board nearby and grab it, ready to defend myself against any winged attackers. When I turn to ask Charity if she's all right, I see, much to my horror, that she is peeking over the crates. "Iain!" she cries in a desperate voice.

"Stop it!" I hiss as I grab her and pull her back down and glare into her terrified eyes. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Charity shakes her head frantically and huddles against the crates. A shim appears in the gap above us, bearing its teeth, but a sound thump with my board sends it rolling down the other side of the fishing boat's hull. I startle at the cracks and whistles of gunshots, realizing as I do that they had actually started when Charity and I had taken shelter here. With all the excitement, and the cries of humans and gargoyles, I hadn't noticed them before. Judging by the direction the sound is coming from, it's the police who are doing the shooting, not my partner.

At this thought terror hits me in a freezing, sickening wave, all the stronger for its delayed arrival. My pounding heart, which until now felt like it belonged to someone else, fills my ears above the cacophony around me. I look around the edge of the crates to see Simon and Crombie, forced back from the pier and out in the open, beating back the attacking gargoyles with their canes. Simon seems to have lost his pistol. From here I can just get a glimpse of Miss Romanelli, standing where the pier meets the waterfront with the amulet in her hands and a terrible grin on her face.

A gargoyle drops from the sky as a constable's bullet finds its mark. Several dead and injured creatures litter the docks, but for every fallen one there are ten swirling about in the air.  
I cannot see the policemen, so I cannot tell if any of them have been injured or killed by the maddened gargoyles.

_This can't go on for much longer. We're severely outnumbered._

A peck notices my exposed head and dives at me, but I duck behind the crates and out of the way. It rises into the air again, flies directly above and tries to attack me from that angle, only to be knocked out of the air by Charity, who has armed herself with a lath. She smiles almost sheepishly at me. "She doesn't seem to be concentrating so much on us," Charity observes. "Perhaps we can use that to our advantage?"

"I can't think how," I say. "Any ideas?"

"We have to get that amulet away from her," Charity suggests, her eyes flicking in Romanelli's direction. A snarling gronk clambers over the hull of the fishing boat. Charity and I smash it in the teeth and send it rolling back the way it came, along with a piece of my board, which snapped in two when it hit the gargoyle's skull.

"She's too far away – we wouldn't make it five steps." I cast about for something we might be able to use, something to give me divine inspiration, but I find nothing. My best course, it seems, would be to call to Simon and Crombie and tell them to wrest the amulet from their tormentor. No, Simon would have thought of that already. If he hasn't done it by now, he must not be able to.

I risk another glance round the corner of the crates to assess the situation. They have fought their way closer to the Viscontessa, but the gargoyles prevent them from advancing further. Three lines of red stand out on Crombie's cheek where a peck scratched him. Simon appears unscathed. Both are obviously growing weary, and it will not be long before one of them makes a fatal mistake.

A shim charges at Simon, head down and horns bared like a belligerent goat. I shout a warning, but to no avail – the shim collides with Simon (I can almost feel the impact jarring my own bones) and sends him sprawling. He loses his grip on his cane, which rolls across the cobbles towards me. Crombie manages to help him to his feet while fending off the shim and says something to him that I can't hear. A pair of griffs bear down on them, and other gargoyles surround them on all sides, pinning them to the spot.

Simon's cane is just on the other side of the crates, within arm's reach of me. I look at Miss Romanelli, who is savouring the moments before the kill. Charity and I haven't been attacked for a while now, so I assume we are out of sight and out of mind.

In my mind's eye I see Brother Mallory, torn to ribbons because he stood in the way of another person's avarice. I am _not_ going to let that happen to my partner.

Fuelled by a mix of anger and desperation, I spring from my hiding place and throw aside the broken board I had been using as a weapon, snatching Simon's cane off the ground in passing. I grip it in both hands and prepare to swing it like a club as I close the gap with Helena Romanelli, who does not notice me until it's too late. She steps back to avoid my blow, which was not well-aimed in any case, but does not avoid it entirely. The cane hits her hands, causing her to cry out as the gargoyle-bone amulet arcs into the air and breaks into pieces when it hits the ground. She turns a murderous glare on me, which sends me staggering backward even though I am armed and she is not.

At that moment I become aware of the sudden quiet and a distinctly malicious sort of attention turned toward us – when you're a detective, you develop an acute sixth sense for that sort of thing. Then I hear the cry of a gargoyle, which is soon joined by others, as they fly at the one who was until lately controlling them. She looks around at the gargoyles, and then at me, this time with fear in her eyes, just before the gargoyles overwhelm her.

Something grabs me and I am half-dragged, half-carried in leaps and bounds back to where I was hiding with Charity. I cry out in panic before I realize that it's Simon. He whisks me behind the crates, where we huddle together to ride out the strange and terrifying storm around us. I cling to Simon, grateful for the comfort of his arm around my shoulders, though I know it can provide me with no real protection.

At any moment, I fear – I am almost certain of it – the gargoyles will finish with Helena Romanelli and come for us. I squeeze my eyes shut as her screams and the creatures' shrieks overwhelm my senses. Even in my terror I ask myself, did the spell just backfire when I broke the amulet, or are the creatures furious for having been used?

After what seems like the longest minute of my life the terrible sounds fade. The gargoyles calm down and return to their usual squawking and calling. I hear one of the policemen shout and run across the cobbles, sending the startled gargoyles flapping away. The crisis is over, but I can't find it in me to move, or even to open my eyes.

"You haven't fainted, have you?" Simon asks in a near-whisper. I can't tell if he's being serious, or whether he is more concerned or annoyed by the possibility.

As for me, I'm annoyed at _him_ for even suggesting it. "Yes I have. Fainted dead away," I say, finally opening my eyes to glare at him. "The shock was too much for my delicate nerves." I realize that we are closer to each other than is really appropriate at the moment, but if I move away, it would be like backing down.

Simon responds with a "spare me" expression. "Just checking," he says, and gets to his feet. He steps past me so that he can see around the crates. I notice for the first time that his cloak is torn in a few places, and his arms are crisscrossed with claw marks. Before I can stand up and ask him if he's all right, he looks back at me with a grave expression and puts a hand on my shoulder. "The police have covered up what remains of Miss Romanelli. You probably don't want to see what's under the sheet."

"I'll take your word for it," I say, accepting his offered hand to pull me to my feet without really thinking about it. Only afterwards do I worry that I might have aggravated his injuries. "You look a mess."

"Speak for yourself," Simon remarks. I perform a quick examination of myself and see that, though I'm mostly unscathed, my dress is so dirty and torn as to be beyond hope. Even a beggar or a ragpicker wouldn't want it.

I notice that I'm still holding Simon's cane, and I'm surprised that he hasn't asked for it back. "Here," I say, offering it to him. "Sorry I used your cane."

He takes it back from me. "I suppose it was acceptable, under the circumstances. Just try not to make a habit of it." Simon smiles at me, one of his genuine smiles, and I return it, knowing that I have just been paid a great compliment.

We come out of our hiding place into the open and almost collide with Iain Crombie and Charity Wyndham. Charity is in a better state than I am, but Crombie looks much the worse for wear. I feel a creeping nervousness – which I see reflected in Charity's countenance – as Simon and Crombie face each other.

Crombie takes it upon himself to break the silence. "Sir," he begins, preparing to do something very difficult, "I know we have had significant differences in the past, but after what has happened today, I hope to…." he pauses, swallowing a lump of nervousness in his throat, caught between pride and conscience. "That is…I believe I owe you an apology." His bow looks like an aborted collapse.

I watch to see what my partner will do, or say, in response. For a span of heartbeats he does nothing; then a subdued smile appears on his face, and he nods, offering his hand to his former rival. Crombie blinks at Simon for a moment before clasping the proffered hand with his own and shaking it, first with extreme caution and then with enthusiasm. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

While our respective partners exchange handshakes, Charity Wyndham and I exchange covert smiles of pride.

Of course Simon wanted to make a report to the police instead of going directly to a doctor for his injuries, and I had to persuade him otherwise. I pointed out that while his wounds may not have been serious – adding that I was sure they were worse than he said in any case – he knew as well as I did the places where those gargoyles' claws might have been and that there was a very serious risk of infection if he left them untreated for too long. Simon couldn't argue with such reasoning, although it didn't stop him from trying.

In the end he gave in and got himself taken care of while I went to the police. Since I had been right about Simon's theory concerning the case, I had little trouble making a full report to Commissioner Thornton – though I asked him to keep quiet about the robbery of the Museum Obscura and the provenance of the amulet as long as possible. It would not be long before the full story got out, but at least the Ephiphanic Church would have time to prepare first.

There are many loose ends of this affair that need tying up. Only some of the things Miss Romanelli had stolen were among her belongings. Most of her ill-gotten gains were nowhere to be found. Theopolous was sure that she'd hidden the artefacts and jewellery, intending to retrieve it after things had calmed down so that she could sell it elsewhere. He hoped that Simon would help his men track down the items. A long and arduous business, he said.

Another detail – one that I felt obligated to bring up – was the question of my responsibility for Helena Romanelli's death. It was not the first time a criminal in one of our cases had ended up dead instead of jailed, and I knew that when that happened, someone had to answer for it. Theopolous assured me that the Viscontessa was more to blame for her demise than I was, and that what had happened was clearly an accident. True though that may be, and though Helena Romanelli may have been a wicked person, it still weighs on my conscience.

Finishing up with Theopolous takes longer than I thought it would. Simon will already be back at the Residence and awaiting me in the study, as we arranged. I hail a hansom to take me home. On the front steps I pause to consider whether I should see my partner immediately or make myself presentable first. I decide on the latter option. Simon will just have to be patient.

After taking a bath and changing my dress, I go to the kitchen to prepare a tray of tea, sliced bread and butter, in order to atone for the sin I have committed by keeping Simon waiting. With the help of a dumbwaiter I transport my offering to the upstairs study, where my partner is working at his desk. Writing some concluding notes for the case, no doubt, or something he wants me to include in the report. With a fresh set of clothes and a stubborn refusal to acknowledge pain, Simon betrays no sign of his injuries – except for his shirtsleeves, which are not pushed up to his elbows as usual because he is concealing bandages beneath them.

"How are you feeling?" I ask as I make my way down the curving staircase.

Simon finishes whatever he was writing, folds it and pushes it aside so I can put the tray down on the desk. "You saw what happened," he says, turning his chair to face me. "What do _you_ think the answer is?"

There's a second chair nearby that I stood on when taking stock of the contents of the bookshelves earlier this week. Once carried a short distance to the desk, it can serve its intended purpose as a seat. "Like you were clawed by a flock of frenzied gargoyles?" I guess as I sit down and pour us both cups of tea.

"Precisely," he says, taking a cup and sipping from it.

I sigh and drink a little of the tea myself. "One thing I'm curious about – well, two things. What were you planning to use that pistol for, and what happened to it?" Though Simon has a shooting range beneath the Residence, I have rarely ever seen him use a gun. He seems to think it beneath him.

Simon picks up a slice of bread and starts spreading butter on it. "I considered the possibility that she might set the gargoyles on us. Under the circumstances, carrying a pistol was the best preparation I could make against such an eventuality." He sighs wearily. "As you saw, that hasty preparation was inadequate, to say the least. A peck sent the pistol to the bottom of the harbour."

I swallow the bite of bread I was chewing. "You didn't have much time to plan. Of course things went wrong. But consider the silver lining: if everything had gone off without a hitch, you wouldn't have received an apology from Crombie." Smiling, I add, "You handled that very well, by the way. I'm proud of you."

My partner suddenly becomes very interested in his teacup. "He as good as admitted that he was in the wrong. Who am I to disagree with him?" He puts the teacup down, takes up the buttered slice of bread and proceeds to eat it with deliberate concentration.

"Who indeed?" I say wryly. Since I have made Simon suffer enough for the time being, I spare him by changing to a less touchy subject. "I spoke with Theopolous, of course. He says he wants your help tracking down most of the things Miss Romanelli stole. We need to speak to Cardinal Invictus as well."

Simon puts his partially eaten slice of bread back on the tray. "In other words, we will be forced to face the embarrassment of not being able to answer many questions he is likely to have." I request some elaboration by way of a raised eyebrow. "I have no idea how Helena Romanelli learned of the amulet, or how to use it," he continues, "nor do I know what happened to the inventory for the Museum Obscura: she may have taken and possibly destroyed it, or perhaps it is simply lost. Those are questions only she could have answered. Although some careful searching may uncover those items, if they are to be found."

I know how much it bothers Simon to be left with unanswered questions, and it vexes me too. "Do you really believe that she did all that just to get revenge on you?" Having finished the last of the tea in my cup, I put it down and refill it. "Perhaps she really _was_ only interested in what she stole, and at the last, when she couldn't get away with it, decided she might as well take us down with her. If she'd wanted to kill you, it would have made more sense to rob only the Museum and set the gargoyles on us directly, or not even that…"

"Implicit in that statement is the assumption that every crime comes from a clear and well-articulated motive." Simon interrupts. "After all this time you should know better than that. Humans have an astounding capacity for doing rational things for irrational reasons." He takes a sip from his teacup. "Of course, she may have engineered it so that she would have something to gain whether I confronted her or not. Remember that necklace Crombie showed her – the one that ended up in his hands by way of a burglar?"

"Yes. You said it belonged to her mother."

"I will have to see what else she had among her belongings, but I would guess that all the stolen valuables she kept with her also belonged to the Romanellis. Her choice of targets is also telling: the Verinders are one of the wealthiest families in the city, and the Eismores are not."

"They just had some of her old jewellery?" I guess.

Simon nods. "To satisfy her warped sense of fairness, I suppose. The other things she took would do for any money troubles she had – and I don't doubt that she did – or for simple avarice." Taking a bite from his slice of bread, he chews it thoughtfully and swallows. "I don't know how she discovered that the Eismores and the Verinders had some of her family's former treasures, though I can think of a few ways…." Simon trails off and finishes the last of the bread and butter, probably not tasting it at all. "I took longer than I should have to solve this case, and I have more missing details than I can be easy with," he says, gazing simultaneously at the portrait above the desk and a million miles away. "I may have found and thwarted the culprit, Emma, but this does not number among the best examples of my work."

I almost tell him to correct the first person singular to the first person plural, as I am accustomed to doing, but the shadow of dejection cast upon him tells me that he is saying "I" to take all the blame on himself. It's both frustrating and painfully touching. "You did all you could do. How could you have reasoned out something like that amulet? That's rather strange and unexpected even by _our_ standards. By the way, is there anything aside from the usual that you want me to put in the case file for this one?"

For a few seconds my partner remains silent and still. Then he turns to me with a deadly serious and very unnerving look in his eyes. "The case file can wait until tomorrow. There's something more important that needs attending to."

Trying to seem more composed than I feel, I nod for him to continue and lift my teacup to my lips to drink the last of its contents.

"I want to know what you've been so preoccupied with these past two days."

_Danik! Oh, bloody hell!_

I almost choke on my tea.


	10. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

In the excitement of the past few hours I forgot my own considerable troubles, but now they are brought home to me with all the violence of a sledgehammer hitting my skull.

The cup and saucer fall from my nerveless fingers onto my lap and thence to the floorboards, making (or so it seems to me) a lot more noise than it has any right to. "As I told you yesterday – don't _do_ that!" I sputter, picking up the cup and saucer and setting them rather roughly on the tea tray. At least the cup was empty; I didn't have the additional woe of spilling tea on myself.

Simon ignores the teacup catastrophe. "You couldn't have thought I'd overlook it. I let it go until now because we had other concerns, but the time has come for an explanation – and you are not leaving this room until I hear it." Through the harshness of his words I can hear his difficulty in saying them, as if he finds it as difficult to confront me as I will find it to confess.

My heart tries to scramble up and out of my throat. Having this subject brought up so abruptly is disorienting, to say the least. I tear away from Simon's transfixing gaze and cover my face with my hands, creating a cover of darkness under which I can collect my thoughts. I knew we would have this discussion, but I'm completely unprepared for it. Not only that, but telling Simon the truth may sunder us forever. How can I bring myself to do that? _Lord help me, I don't know what to do._

No, now that it's come down to this, I know _exactly _what I should do. I should tell Simon the truth, because I owe my partner nothing less. Let him think of me what he will – at least I'll have done the best I can by him. Not only that, but I feel that I _have_ to tell him for the sake of my own sanity. _Danik can just bugger off if he disapproves._

I drop my hands from my face, clasp them and place them on my knees. I keep my eyes closed. _Where to begin?_ "It's…a very long story," I begin, my voice weak. Thinking he might take that the wrong way, I hasten to add, "I mean that as a warning, not an excuse."

"So noted." Simon crosses his legs and settles his interlaced hands on his knee in a manner eerily reminiscent of Danik's.

"When I…before we…oh, drat!" I shake my head, gritting my teeth. "I always intended to tell you the truth someday, but this is too soon, and I'm afraid you're going to hate me for…"

"Emma." Simon takes my hands in a surprisingly reassuring gesture. The way he looks at me makes me a little uncomfortable, and yet I don't find it unpleasant. "You would have to do something unspeakably heinous to make me hate you, and I very much doubt that whatever you did or will do is as horrible as you think." After a moment he seems to remember himself. He lets go my hands and withdraws his own, looking away for a moment. When he looks back at me his expression is serious and attentive, but whatever I saw a moment before has vanished.

"All right." I take a deep breath. "First, you should know that what I _have_ told you about my past until now is true."

"You merely omitted a significant detail or two," Simon supplies.

_I could say the same thing about you, Simon._ _Actually, with _you_ it was rather more than 'one or two.' _"Until recently I was not at liberty to share those details with you. Or with anyone else, for that matter." Folding my hands in my lap, I turn a steady gaze upon my partner. "If I recall correctly, I have never begged you for anything in all the time we've known each other. Please take that into consideration when I say that I beg you not to pass judgment on me until I have finished." That came out better than I expected – I have managed to go against the grain of my pride without losing my dignity.

Simon nods slowly, perhaps re-evaluating his assertion that what I did and what I am about to do are not as bad as I think, and certainly not bad enough to make him hate me.

Going on from here requires a momentous struggle: to get the words past my lips it seems I must first drag them up a mountain. And a steep and treacherous mountain it is.

At last I take the plunge and begin. "As you know, some of my friends from university started up a travelling vaudeville troupe after they graduated, and I joined them. We did fairly well, and I enjoyed it a great deal – which no doubt makes you wonder why I left and came back to Partington."

"Something connected with your powers, wasn't it?" Simon guesses.

I look down at my hands. "Yes, it was." When I started I thought I would have to force out every word, but as I go on I find it easier to continue. Where before I was scaling a mountain, I am now tumbling down it, and could not stop if I tried. "There was a certain man in our troupe – I'll call him Geoffrey – who was quite fond of me. I think he was in love with me, or at least he fancied that he was. The feeling was not mutual, though he was a decent enough sort and I liked him as a friend. Since I didn't want to hurt his feelings and I had no idea how serious they were, I did not tell him as much outright until he proposed to me." I reflect with some embarrassment upon the naïveté and foolishness that made me think I was being considerate, when in fact it would have been kindest to be direct at the outset.

"Neither of us said anything about the proposal to our friends, which maybe we should have done. Geoffrey became rather low after that. I thought he'd get over it without trouble if we never brought up the subject again.

"A few weeks after the incident he said he wanted to talk to me, in private. He made the appointment a few hours ahead of time, so I had a while to consider it. I had begun by then to think that my rejection of him might have been hasty, because though I wasn't wildly in love with him, I liked him and thought he might improve on me over time. So I thought it best to talk with him after all, and say that I might eventually change my mind. The fact that I considered this a good idea is a testament to just how stupid I was back then."

Simon raises an eyebrow at me. "That sounds like a sensible course of action to me."

I surprise myself with a brief, ironic laugh. "It wouldn't if you were a woman, or if you'd ever been in love."

"Well, since neither circumstance has or ever can apply to me," he says, with a dismissive wave of his hand, "I shall simply have to take your word for it." Upon realizing that this bit of lightheartedness is rather out of place, Simon straightens up and clears his throat. "Never mind. Go on."

I give him a brief smile to assure him that I haven't taken offence – and, to be honest, to put off telling the next part of the story as long as possible. "I don't know what Geoffrey intended to say. When I met him, he was obviously quite drunk, and he tried to…." I cannot complete the sentence: I feel as if I have hit a wall. Part of me can't believe that I'm even trying to tell this to Simon. I turn away from him, close my eyes and put a hand to my forehead, trying to work away the sudden lump in my throat.

"He tried to take advantage of you?" Simon finishes quietly, with an undertone of anger in his voice.

_That's not exactly the right term for it, but it's close enough_. I nod. "If I'd been then the way I am now, I would have realized that I could have easily fended him off. No, I should have been able to even then. Geoffrey was absolutely foxed, and he wasn't that big or strong, so I could have gotten away even if he were sober. But I was frightened, and my wits were scattered. Geoffrey grabbed my arm: when he touched me I felt as if I had been dropped into a forge. Everything around me glowed and wavered with intense heat. And I…it's difficult to describe. I used that heat to _push _him away from me, without so much as thinking about it. Geoffrey was thrown like a rag doll – he hit the wall, and was knocked out. The impact also broke his arm, as I found out later."

Somehow I've managed to get over that difficult part; I can continue without shame closing my throat. "I ran away, tried to collect myself, and thought about what I should do. Geoffrey wouldn't have tried such a thing, I was sure, if he had not been drunk – although I'm less certain of that now than I was then. I thought perhaps that I should run away, because Geoffrey knew about my powers, but he'd been very drunk and might not remember. If he _did_ remember, he couldn't say anything without implicating himself, and he was smart enough to know that. I decided to keep quiet. The next day, when I saw him again, he didn't recall anything. At least, that's what he claimed, and as far as I can tell, it was true. He thought he'd simply been too deep in his cups to walk straight, and he'd taken a bad fall…."

"Why didn't you tell anyone what really happened?" Simon interrupts. "True, he may have been drunk, but he'd have deserved whatever he got."

"Because I was afraid," I shoot back, hitting the desktop with my open hand. "I was reasonably certain that he didn't even remember the incident. An accusation might have reminded him of what I'd done, and _then_ what would have happened? I was in mortal terror of anyone finding out!" I realize that I've been shouting and that I'm halfway out of my chair; feeling chagrined and suddenly drained, I sit back in silence.

Simon is startled, or at least unnerved, by my vehemence. "Then I suppose I cannot fault you for keeping silent," he concedes, quiet and – I almost can't believe it - apologetic.

Feeling ashamed for raising my voice to him, I clasp my hands together in my lap and fix my eyes on a knothole in the floorboards. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…."

"No, I had no right to…" Simon falls silent as I look up at him. He clears his throat. "Never mind. Go on."

It occurs to me that we've never had a serious discussion (even a case-related discussion) go on as long as this one without it dissolving into our usual banter or degenerating into an argument. Something tells me that Simon's aware of this too.

"I was…anxious around Geoffrey after that," I continue. "It wasn't that I was afraid of him, so much as I was of doing whatever I'd done a second time, with worse results. I decided to go back home to Partington, where I hoped to find work at the university (which, as you know, I didn't). So I parted with the troupe and boarded the next available train.

"There were a fair number of empty seats in the car I boarded, but I happened to pick one close to the middle. There was a man sitting in the facing seat, gazing out the window. I didn't really look at him until I sat down. He looked very familiar, though I couldn't remember ever seeing him before. And he wasn't the sort of person I could easily forget – even sitting down he was obviously much above the average height, he had flame-red hair and light amber eyes – almost yellow, in fact."

Simon's furrowed brow and _geste de pense_ make it evident to me that he is trying to puzzle something out of my story. For some reason that bothers me. His eyes flick in my direction, and he seems to notice my discomfiture, for he straightens up, interlaces his fingers and returns his attention to me as if it had never been anywhere else.

I consider asking him what he was thinking about, but decide against it. "I didn't think he'd noticed me. After the train started moving again I kept looking at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to place him. Of course he caught me at it, but he didn't seem annoyed. Instead he greeted me by name and said that he'd been waiting for me."

"Always a bad sign," Simon mutters.

"That's what I thought at the time. But I also found it more curious than alarming, and somehow I was certain that this man meant me no harm. I asked him who he was, how he knew me, and how he could have known to wait for me here. He replied that his name was Danik – no 'mister,' by the way, just Danik –that he had been watching me for some time, and that he knew beforehand where I would sit."

"Did you purchase your train ticket in advance?" Simon asks.

Though I think it a strange thing to ask, I confirm his guess with a nod.

"Then if he had been watching you, as he said, that explains how he knew what train you would take. But I'm at a loss as to how he could have known anything more specific than that."

"He'd watched me long enough to know that I had a habit of riding in the last car and taking a seat close to the middle. I figured that out pretty quickly, and I've tried to pick my seat at random ever since.

"It goes without saying that I was unsettled, but I was more curious than concerned. For some reason I didn't think that Danik meant me any harm. I questioned him further. He said he had noticed my 'gift,' as he called it, and that he could teach me how to use it." I think it best not to tell Simon exactly what Danik said: _You could be so much more than you are, Emma._

"After what had happened with Geoffrey, I could not resist the offer. By the time the train pulled into Partington I had signed on as Danik's willing student. He said that one day he would ask me to do something for him in exchange for his tutelage. I was at least smart enough to make him swear that whatever he made me do would not be immoral or unethical. He made me promise that I would never tell anyone of this arrangement, and that I would only use my powers in a desperate emergency – and be sure not to reveal them to others. But circumstances have changed since then. You know about my powers, and I no longer have them."

Simon nods, looking as if he is trying against all his instincts to believe me. "I assume this Danik has been teaching you for the past four years?"

I realize that I'm clenching my hands very tightly, and with some effort I loosen them. "Yes and no. We met for lessons during the twelve months between my coming to Partington and your bumping into me."

"I beg to differ," Simon interrupts. "_You_ bumped into _me_."

"Crashed, really, but let's not quibble over details. Danik taught me to do a few things with my power, but he has not taught me everything yet. Far from it."

_And now I must tell you about the wager. I hope you can forgive me._ "After you asked me to be your assistant, Danik came to talk to me. He said there were certain things I had to learn on my own before my training could continue, and this was a perfect opportunity to learn them. It would be…." I cover my face with my hands and swallow the sudden lump in my throat. "A test. A wager between us. If I won and proved myself worthy of further knowledge, I would get it. If I lost or forfeited, I'd lose my powers and my whole life as I knew it." _Now for the worst part. _"I was supposed to…"

"I think I can guess what your object was," Simon interrupts in a low voice. He doesn't sound angry – instead he sounds sad, dissatisfied, as he did when cataloguing his errors on our latest case. "I believed you were trying to reform me because of misguided good intentions, or perhaps annoyance. Not that you were doing it for some test."

Lowering my hands, I look at him again, meeting a gaze that pricks me with shame. "No, it isn't like that anymore. At first I tried to help you for Danik's sake, but somehow I ended up doing it for yours. I came to consider you a friend, Simon. I just hope you can say the same of me…now that you know the truth."

A rather long, uncomfortable silence ensues. Simon finally breaks it. "If it hadn't been for Danik – if you'd never even met him – would you still have become my assistant and stayed with me as long as you have?"

"I became your assistant because the notion appealed to me, not because of any wager. And I have not once regretted my decision since then. So the answer is yes." After what Danik told me I think he would have gotten me together whether we wanted it that way or not, but I can be proud of the fact that Simon thought I was talented enough to work with him, and that I did so willingly.

A smile creeps across my partner's face. "Even though I drive you to distraction, as you so often remind me?"

The combination of unexpected humour and relief makes me chuckle. "I knew I would have to deal with that from the beginning. I've grown accustomed to it – though not inured."

He nods in acknowledgement and acceptance of my answer before some dark thought crosses his face, banishing his smile. "Did you lose the wager?" he asks me, his voice quiet and numb. "Is that what this is about?"

I shake my head. "No, I won it – barely. If I'd lost I would not still be here." Sighing and pushing some errant strands of hair off my face, I prepare to break the news to him. "I also learned…certain things."

And then I tell him everything about my conversation with Danik.

The effect on my partner is terrible to watch. Simon's familiar pride and self-possession seem to peel away, layer by layer, leaving him ashen-faced and uncertain. From time to time he tenses as if bracing for a blow. Whenever I pause in my narrative, thinking that I can no longer bear tormenting him this way, he bids me to continue.

"Danik said I should tell you whatever I thought was best," I conclude, my voice quiet with shame, anguish and weakness from long use. "I know the truth wasn't so much the best thing as it was the lesser of two evils, but it was all I could do." I turn my gaze to my left arm where it rests on the desk, so I won't have to look at my partner. "Please forgive me."

A few seconds of terrible quiet pass before Simon abruptly stands up from his chair, recollecting something of himself in the process. I watch as he walks slowly to the study's great window and stands there, hands linked behind his back, looking out on the city below. _If you don't say something soon…_

"He lied to you," Simon says at last. "I am almost certain that he's concealing a number of things from you, but one thing he said I know to be a lie."

_The Prism._ I knew Simon wasn't being honest when he said he had no memory of how he survived the wound dealt him by Lightbourne and the conflagration in the Museum Obscura, but I never demanded that he tell me the truth. Now I don't have the heart to press him for it, though the fact that Danik concealed it from me makes me all the more desperate to know.

It also points to a disturbing conclusion: either Danik was confident that I would not tell my partner the truth, or he was sure that Simon was so unwilling to speak of the matter that he would not expose Danik's deception. Or, as Simon supposed, there may yet be some part of Danik's agenda that he has not revealed to me.

Simon turns to face me, his countenance detached and implacable once more – but there is a light in his eyes that almost makes me cringe. "If Danik had planted the Enigmatic Prism in my cane as he said, I would have destroyed it a long time ago." He lowers his eyes and turns them away, towards the window. "He took me to safety and healed me, yes, but in exchange for my promise to safeguard the Prism."

_Safeguard the…no wonder you wouldn't talk about it._ I clutch at the desk to keep myself from falling out of my chair. Despite a swimming head and weak knees I stand up, using the desk as a support, and slowly make my way to the window to stand beside my partner. He keeps his eyes downcast instead of looking at me.

"I was too desperate to refuse," he says quietly. "After I woke up in the sanatorium I thought it had been an hallucination or a nightmare: I had been…" – he pauses to draw a shuddering breath – "I wasn't myself for a while after the incident, and when I had recovered somewhat I believed I had been confused about what really happened. Until they showed me the cane, which had been found with me.

"I had given my word, and I thought I had been assigned guardianship of the Prism for some greater purpose, so I kept it hidden. To tell the truth, I also feared the possible consequences of breaking my promise. I thought I could protect myself against it, and that was why it had been given to me. But after everything that happened during the past few months – Malcolm, the Baroness and the loss of the Prism – I realized that I was not immune to its effects, and it was even more dangerous than I had first supposed. It had to be destroyed, no matter the consequences to me or whatever grand plan necessitated my keeping it." He shakes his head slowly. "It seems the grand plan was for me to destroy it after all," he mutters.

I lay a cautious hand on my partner's shoulder. "Simon, you couldn't have known. I can't blame you for making that bargain with Danik. You had no choice." _Neither did I, but not for the same reasons I thought._

Gathering courage, Simon manages to glance sideways at me. "When he appeared to me he didn't look at all as you describe him. He had a vaguely human shape, but he seemed to be made out of light." He falls silent for a moment. "Danik didn't put the Enigmatic Prism in the cane himself. From what you've told me, I think that doing so would have harmed him, perhaps even killed him. He directed me to conceal it, and I did." Simon turns away again and squeezes his eyes shut. "It seems we each made a pact with the same devil, Emma."

I wouldn't call Danik a devil – or, at least, I don't want to. But I know what he is to Simon. Though he may not hate me for knowing about my association with Danik, he will never be able to trust me fully again. By telling him the truth I have done irreparable damage: we can't really be partners now. _Or friends. _I let my hand fall from Simon's shoulder. "What shall we do?" I ask him, myself and the universe at large. The calm detachment in my voice surprises me.

Simon turns to me, his face now set in that imperturbable and intensely thoughtful expression I know so well. "When are you supposed to meet Danik?"

The question takes me the rest of the way from uncertainty to confusion. "I – I was supposed to meet him as soon as possible, after taking my leave here. But…"

"Would it upset him if I went with you?" Simon asks, allowing me no space in which to plan my answer or figure out where he's heading with the question.

I've seen him use this interrogative strategy too many times to be taken in by it myself. "I imagine he would be," I answer with some asperity. "But how can you assume that I'm still going to join him after what you just told me?" _Though I can't stay here, either. Not now._

"Emma," he says warningly, "I have a few theories about the true nature of Danik's experiment, and if any one of them is correct, you won't have a choice in the matter."

"Why? What do you think he's doing?" I'm not sure whether I ought to feel more irritated or alarmed.

Simon's _geste de pense_ tips the balance significantly towards the former. "I'm not sure which theory, if any, is correct – and you know my policy on doing a summation before I have all the facts."

"Seeing as I have a vested interest in what's at stake here, to say the least, do you think you could make an exception _just this once?_" I snap at him.

"Absolutely not," he replies with a glare and a tone that brooks no argument. "I have no desire to cause you unnecessary confusion and alarm…"

"_Really?_ Well, you certainly had me fooled."

Simon frowns at me. "Perhaps I should rephrase that: I don't want to bias you one way or the other. In most cases I find it counterproductive, and in this case it may even cause you harm. Just believe me when I tell you that the best thing you can do is meet with Danik as you had planned. If I'm wrong – and I hope I am – there will be no harm in it. If I'm right, then confronting Danik and uncovering his real agenda is the only chance you have of taking control of this situation."

"How exactly am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't know. I only know that avoiding Danik would almost certainly be imprudent and undoubtedly impossible. That is why I intend to go with you."

I take a few moments to let this sink in. "There's another reason, isn't there?" I say quietly. "You want to know why he gave you the Prism."

Simon does nothing to confirm or deny this, but he does not break away from my gaze.

"I don't know what you expect to accomplish," I say. "There's no way you can make him tell you the truth. Or do anything else, for that matter. And I'm not sure that he'll have any scruples about hurting you, if you confront him."

"I'm aware of the risk," Simon murmurs, looking out the window.

"Then you should see the sense in letting me go to Danik alone," I say firmly. "If you accompany me you will have only an infinitesimal chance of obtaining the truth and practically every chance of getting yourself hurt or killed. It's not worth the…"

Simon turns on me with ferocity burning in his eyes. "The truth is _always_ worth the risk. Especially now." He calms himself down somewhat before continuing in a softer voice, "This is a truth I would take any risk for. Danik can't do anything worse to me than he's done already."

"Even if he kills you?"

"Even if he kills me," Simon repeats, turning the question into a conviction and chilling me with implications that are no less terrible for being vague. "I would rather that than live out the rest of my days knowing I didn't take this chance when I had it – however small it may be."

_It's not a _small_ chance, it's _no _chance. _"You may think it's worth the risk, Simon, but I don't." Feeling tears gather in my eyes, I turn away so he won't see them. I wish I had found some option other than telling him the truth; while going along with me may be _his_ foolish notion, it will still be my fault if something happens to him because of it.

"Emma, there is another reason why I want to accompany you." He puts a hand on my arm and gently turns me around to face him. "Should you end up leaving" – as if he could possibly prevent it from happening – "it's only proper that I be there to see you off."

I can't find the words to respond to that, much less argue against it.

After a short and exceedingly uncomfortable silence, Simon looks away for a moment and clears his throat, switching our stalled conversation onto another track. "What must you do to prepare?" he asks, sounding like the very essence of practicality.

"I'll have to find a way to explain my departure," I say. Because, whatever Simon may think, I will probably end up going with Danik. And because he is currently in disfavour with so many in the city, he would get in a lot of trouble if I just vanished.

"I can help you with that," he assures me. Being the kind of person he is, he can provide me with invaluable assistance in this regard. "Do you need to pack, or bring anything?"

"Not where I'm going," I say quietly. I neglected to explain that completing my training with Danik meant that I would become like him. Fortunately I don't have to say it – by the look in Simon's eyes, he understands what I mean. "I don't need anything."

Pause.

"Not even that ridiculous makeup case?" Simon asks, almost hopefully.

My smile is as sad and desperate as his attempt at humour. "No, Simon." _I'm going to miss you._

"Then let us attend to the task of covering for your departure," he says in a subdued tone.

Simon and I proceed to develop a plan for how we will explain my sudden departure. As far as everyone else is concerned, I will have learned that my maternal aunt (a fabricated aunt, of course) has fallen gravely ill, and I must go immediately to attend her. Her illness will prove fatal, and she will have left the care of her young children and the management of a considerable property to me. Of course that means I will have to stay there, but I can visit from time to time, and of course send letters.

In the event that I am prevented from returning here – which, if Simon is right, is the more likely situation – he will say I have met with some fatal accident. I prepare other letters that Simon will date and send appropriately, to complete the illusion. All of this takes us until late into the night to complete, and throughout it all Simon acts as if we are coming up with a contingency plan, not a way of cleaning up after the inevitable (or almost certainly inevitable).

Even though this elaborate deception is deadly serious business, I can't help but find it rather ridiculous. Simon and I used to foil these kinds of plans all the time. I suppose that means we've exploited enough mistakes to know how to make a foolproof plan. That provides me with some small comfort, at least.

Meanwhile I formulate my own plan, which I implement after Simon has gone to bed. I don my black travelling dress and silk hat, an outfit which may not be appropriate for the weather, but is singularly appropriate for long journeys and funerals – and this stage of my odyssey, I think, is a little bit of both. I write Simon a letter, fold it and leave it on the desk in the study, where he will be sure to find it tomorrow morning.

Resourceful though Simon may be (and Simon's _the _most resourceful person I know), he is no match for Danik. I can't let him come with me. I've done enough damage already without getting him killed into the bargain. Since I have resolved to protect Simon against his wishes – the only meaningful course I can resolve myself to, at this point – I feel oddly calm. Whatever my future life may hold, I can face it with courage now.

I slip out of the Residence through a back door. Every night for the past week has been only marginally less sweltering than the day that preceded it, but tonight there is a cool breeze in the air. Perhaps the heat wave is breaking. In a moment of conceit I half-believe that this change is somehow connected to my own. It passes soon enough.

After one final look up at the Residence, I slip away through the darkened, deserted streets, towards the ruins of Miranda's mansion and my own destiny.


	11. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

The arch of the main door is still standing. I pass through it tentatively, part of me afraid that it will collapse. Around me rise the broken and fire-blackened walls of Miranda's mansion. The ruins were ugly enough by day when I saw them months ago (that is, the morning after they became ruins). By night they are positively eerie. I keep hearing things scuttling over the rubble. Probably just rats or mice that have made their homes here, but I keep jumping at the sounds nonetheless, thinking that they may be people, or ghosts.

Darkness, hardly mitigated by the bright three-quarter moon, makes this a nightmarish place: even more so because of my memories of its former mistress. A chimera of past memories, present fears and the surrounding desolation conjures up phantoms in the corners of my eyes and nibbles at the edges of my sanity.

I look around for the exact spot where the ley-lines converge, where Danik said he would meet me. In my mind I try to match up the ruins with the mansion that once stood here. After some thought, I pick my way through the broken stones and beams towards what I think was the main hall. I hope the general area is good enough – otherwise I shall have to comb the ruins for the exact spot, and I don't think my nerves will hold out that long.

Something shifts under my feet, making me stumble and fall forward. My outstretched hands meet broken, fire-blackened tiles – good thing I elected to wear gloves – and my collision with the ground sends up a thick cloud of dust, which gets into my hair, eyes and nose. I sneeze violently, dislodging my already skewed hat from my head. In my flailing attempt to retrieve it I accidentally send it rolling away into the darkness. "Drat," I mutter as I try to wipe the dust out of my eyes and off my face, "Why wasn't I smart enough to bring a light?"

As if in answer to my question the area around me is suddenly bathed in soft yellow light, emanating from a source above and a little ahead of me that, upon closer inspection, turns out to be a yellow orb about two feet across hanging in the air overhead. With this illumination I see that I am on the edge of a relatively clear, circular area of ground, which upon closer inspection turns out to be fire-blackened stone. This must be the epicentre of the blast of blue fire that destroyed the mansion many months ago – which means it is also the spot where the ley-lines converge. Danik is standing across the clearing from me, impassive as always, which makes my already undignified position all the more embarrassing. I clamber to my feet, brushing the dust off my skirts.

"So, you told Simon everything," Danik says. Not a question or an accusation or a condemnation – just a statement.

Nonetheless, I feel that I have been commanded to explain myself. "I…I had to."

Danik shakes his head. "You _felt_ you had to – even though you knew the danger of telling him the truth. But do not be concerned: you accomplished your objective. What you told him matters little now."

"On the contrary," a new voice breaks in, "I'm afraid it matters a great deal." _Simon._

I whirl around to see him stepping out from a pile of rubble not far behind me. He strides over the carpet of shifting debris beneath his feet as if it were smooth ground. My sense of calm resignation to my fate shatters at the sight of him. _I left without you to save your life, you idiot! How could you do this to me?_

What makes it even worse is that he may have caused himself harm by following me. I walked all the way here by a circuitous route so as to avoid being seen and thus arousing suspicion. That proved somewhat fatiguing for me: Simon's injuries must have made it extremely difficult for him. He could be on the verge of collapse, for all I know.

Simon's cold, level stare never leaves Danik, even as he comes to stand beside me. "You gave in too easily, Emma. I knew you'd come here on your own." And I told him my destination, too, which made it that much easier for him to follow me unseen. I should have known he'd do something like this: even if I couldn't have done anything to prevent it, I should at least have _known._

Simon lays a hand on my shoulder, though whether to comfort me or gently restrain me from protesting I am not sure. "I believe you owe us an explanation," he says, addressing Danik now. Something in his voice does not quite ring true: it takes me a moment to realize what it is. Simon is afraid, perhaps even terrified – but he does not approach any problem in the same way that an ordinary person would, and that aspect of his nature makes no exception for fear. Where others must be forced to wrestle their demons, Simon must be forced not to – if indeed forcing him _not_ to do something is even possible.

Danik does not seem surprised or perturbed by Simon's presence, but a slight narrowing of his eyes indicates that he is irritated. "You already have your explanation."

"I would prefer a more truthful one," Simon says, removing his hand from my shoulder.

_I can't let this go on._ "Simon." He turns his attention to me. "Danik lied about giving you the Prism because you'd been doing the same for years – by which I mean that since he'd placed such a burden on you, he felt obligated to abide by your decision not to tell me the truth."

Simon peers at me for a moment – not angry, but puzzled. "Is that what he told you?"

"No. It's just not his way to…" I fall silent when I realize what I'm saying. All things considered, I don't actually _know_ Danik that well, and after what Simon told me I should not be so eager to defend him. And yet some part of me is certain that Danik can be trusted, that he is honourable in the end – as it has since I first met him.

What I find very disturbing is that I have never questioned that conviction until now.

Simon's feelings echo my own; there is something unnerved in his eyes as he turns back to Danik. "I trust that Emma really believes that to be your motive." _Do you really mean that, Simon? I wouldn't blame you for thinking that I had lied to you myself._ "For the sake of convenience, let us pretend that I believe the same. There are some other things I think you were less than honest about."

"Such as?" Danik asks, putting Simon on the receiving end – for once – of a dry, slightly contemptuous look.

"According to you, your friend Andra had chosen Emma to play for her in this game, as you chose me – yet Emma has never met Andra, though we have both met you. You also said that limits had been placed on both Andra's mind and powers as part of her punishment, so that she does not even know that she is a prisoner."

Danik nods. "That is correct."

For a moment Simon turns to look at me, with something sad and perhaps even apologetic in his eyes. "Emma _is _Andra, isn't she?"

Simon's theory fits perfectly, as his theories almost always do: it explains the gaps in Danik's story, and my powers, and why I thought the name Andra familiar when Danik first mentioned it to me. The hidden truth always sounds so simple and obvious when Simon reveals it; but it has never, to me at least, sounded so terrible.

Even Danik betrays mild shock upon hearing this, though at Simon's perspicacity rather than the revelation that it brought forth. "Yes. She is," he confirms. "That is why she must come back with me."

The world is spinning around me, but I manage to keep my feet. "No," I whisper, flat denial being the only reaction I can manage although I cannot maintain it within myself. "How could I possibly…?"

Danik closes his eyes and lowers his head for a moment, either feeling put-upon by the task of providing an explanation or saddened that he has to give it under these circumstances. From what he told me the other night I suspect it is the former, but another part of me – perhaps the part that is Andra – argues that it may indeed be the latter.

"It is not my way to deceive," Danik says. "I was concerned, however, that you would tell Simon if I told you the truth, or worse, that knowing the truth might cause you to revert before you were ready and lose control of your powers. Had that happened, the consequences would have been disastrous. That is the real reason why I wanted you to meet me in this isolated place, where nobody would notice a little more destruction if it happened."

"So she hasn't lost her powers?" Simon asks.

"They have only been shut off: I believe there was some sort of safety mechanism – "

"Wait," I interject sharply. "Start from the beginning. I want to know the _whole_ truth about the wager…experiment…_whatever_ it is, and what parts Simon and I play in it. I" – I glance at Simon – "_we_ deserve that much at least." Simon, after all he has gone through because of Danik, deserves much more, but the truth may be all he can get. As for me, if I cannot choose my future, I want to know the reason why.

Danik regards us thoughtfully, and for a few moments I fear he will refuse, but he does not. "Most of what I told you was true. You already know or at least suspect my outright falsehoods. Otherwise I deceived you through omission. Apropos of that matter, let me defend myself: where I deceived you, I had good reasons for doing so."

"Don't bother," Simon demurs. "I've heard _that_ defence far too many times to treat it with anything other than disbelief."

I bite my lip and wonder whether Simon actually lacks a sense of self-preservation or whether he simply won't allow any instincts towards prudence to suppress his truculent nature.

Much to my surprise, Danik neither ignores nor rebuts Simon's remark. "It sounds as poor of an excuse to me as it does to you," he says, "even though it _is_ honestly meant."

This does not, of course, mollify Simon, whose slightly narrowed eyes tell me that he's wondering just what Danik's game is. At least he refrains from goading him further.

"In any case," Danik continues, "there is no further point in deceiving either of you. The experiment is over, after all." He looks at Simon for a moment, and then at me. "One of the things I did not tell you was the full purpose of the experiment," he says, switching tracks.

"My people had all given up our emotions as part of the Transition process; Andra, who was not supposed to make the Transition in the first place, kept hers. She believed that we, herself included, had failed to make a full Transition, because we had not embraced our intuitive and emotional powers as well as our rational ones. She insisted that humans were the key to rectifying our mistake. The idea that humans could help us in any capacity was offensive to most of my people – not only because you were mortal, but also because we saw you as our own wayward and disowned progeny."

Before I can ask if Danik's people created us – a notion which, at this point, does not seem as strange to me as it probably should – I recall his implication that his people were not yet that powerful when humans first appeared. So I revise my question accordingly. "You were…trying to help us become like you?"

Danik nods. "Your species, like mine, originated on a world called Earth, which is located in another part of this galaxy. Another thing you had in common with us was the gift of rational thought, which we recognized many millennia ago. We fostered your species in its infancy, secretly helping you take your first steps on the path of sentience, so that you might one day evolve as far as we had. While you far exceeded our expectations in terms of your material and scientific advancement, your moral development was alarmingly slow. You of all people," Danik says, looking at Simon intensely, "should understand just how savage and depraved human nature can be."

Simon does not answer immediately. I don't think he's concerned with what Danik is saying so much as he is with _why_ he might be saying it. "That is true," he says. His tone of voice seems almost conversational now – although I have the distinct feeling that that this is only because he's decided to hold his indignation (I hesitate to say _anger_) in check until he's satisfied his curiosity. "But surely your own people are not free from the vices you ascribe to us."

"I am not implying that," Danik objects. "We have shameful episodes in our own history. I consider the treatment of Andra to be the latest of them. But in our records, which go back a very long way – even to before the time when we were at a level of scientific and technological advancement comparable to yours – we have far fewer outbreaks of violence, problems with poverty, and incidents of destructive exploitation in the course of a millennium than humans do in a century or less."

I always regard statements such as this with extreme scepticism. "The past is often altered to suit the purposes of the present," I say, quoting one of my father's favourite maxims.

"Andra said much the same thing," Danik says quietly. "The rest of us thought that humans were by nature so corrupt that even our tutelage had not been able to redeem them. Andra argued that we ourselves were to blame – that we had pushed the human species too far too fast, concentrating on the advancement of their material culture and expecting that moral development would follow accordingly, as had presumably been the case with us."

Simon raises an eyebrow. "So Andra took some humans and put them here – or perhaps created her own – and left them for a few millennia to see what would happen, is that it?"

Danik seems caught off-guard by Simon's guess, which means that it's correct. I, on the other hand, am not at all surprised, for I had been thinking along similar lines myself. After all, had we been the descendents of settlers from Earth who arrived via some contraption of the sort one encounters in certain fanciful books, we would have the technology ourselves, or at the very least some record of our origins. Since we don't, Andra's agency is a better explanation of our presence here.

Or maybe, if what Danik says is true, I was not surprised to hear the truth because some part of me already knew it.

Danik recovers himself quickly enough. "On this world, yes, that is the case. After her imprisonment, still driven by the theories she had clung to but could no longer understand, Andra engineered several barren worlds in such a way that they would support human life, which she caused to evolve upon them. This world, of all the ones she engineered, bears the closest resemblance to Earth in terms of its diversity of environments, climactic patterns, flora and fauna. Arcadia is her control sample – after moulding the biology of the native humans to her satisfaction, she left them to develop cultures and technologies on their own. On her other worlds, she intervened as she pleased."

"That begs the question," I interject, "of how we measure against the humans of Earth."

Danik's answer sounds a bit rehearsed; at the very least it has been carefully thought out and polished, probably in anticipation of just such an inquiry. "You are _marginally_ better," he says. "You have been slower to develop technologically, but you are not quite so depraved. Although" – Danik gives me a significant look – "I do not think I should include _you_ when I speak of humans."

I do not appreciate the reminder that I am something other than what I have considered myself to be for all my life. Simon does not seem to appreciate it either. "For the sake of clarity, let us include her in that category," he says. I am not offended by his having made the objection for me.

"Very well," Danik says. He picks up the original thread of the conversation once more. "I was assigned to guard Andra. I watched her as she occupied herself by creating these worlds and populating them with new humans, as well as other beings. In the course of my observations I realized that there might be something to her theories after all. So I proposed a game to her – we would see if our own rational thought could be balanced with human emotions.

"She wanted us both to try living lives as humans: we would be born as human beings, live without knowledge of our true selves, and be restored to our original forms when our mortal bodies perished. We would retain the memories of our lives as human beings, and thus have a better idea of how to regain balance within ourselves. I argued that we should work from the other end first, by finding human test subjects and making them more like us."

Danik pauses, as if expecting a response, but Simon does not provide one. Though his expression does not change, he stiffens a bit – I would say with shock, except that I am almost certain that he _expected_ to hear something like this.

"In the end, we opted for a combined approach. I found you" – he nods at Simon – "while Andra placed herself on this world, as a mortal."

This time I make the connection. "And she knew somehow – even if she didn't remember who she really was – that she had to teach and protect whoever you chose," I say, very deliberately not looking at Simon. "That's what you told me to do – and I would have done it even if you hadn't."

Simon's look is an uncomfortable weight, even though I can't see his eyes.

"I wasn't sure you would behave as planned. You were not supposed to be able to use your powers at all, but they manifested anyway, although they are severely limited. It might have been some unanticipated problem with the suppression mechanism. On the other hand, it might have sprung from a subconscious drive that pushed you in the right direction at the right time. Had your powers not appeared, you would not have come back to Partington.

"You have the concept of a subconscious, though it has only been recently developed in your world. That is where your true self – Andra – is. Your subconscious has influenced your decisions throughout your life, and, yes, caused you to recognize your charge. In our original plan, you would have been restored to your true self at the death of your mortal body, but something has gone wrong. The Enigmatic Prism has injured you, and rendered you unable to draw upon the energies necessary to restore yourself. On some level you know this, which is why you made such haste in coming here. If you die as you are, I am almost certain that you will die permanently, and I cannot allow that." After a pause, he adds, "Unfortunately, restoring you to your true self will necessitate the destruction of your mortal self. I have tried to find an alternative, but there is none."

Danik is equating me with Andra again (more than that, he is sometimes addressing me as her!), but – being so overwhelmed by what he has just told me – I don't object this time. Neither does Simon. There's no way either of us can deny it now. _Simon, you shouldn't have come here. You shouldn't have heard this._

"You gravitated towards the person I chose," Danik explains. He turns his attention once more to Simon. "I had a few other possible candidates, but you were my first choice. Fortunately you accepted my…"

"I didn't have any other choice," Simon snaps, causing me to flinch. "What I want to know is exactly what you _did_." In my mind I append his unspoken 'to me.'

"You lack the capacity to fully understand it," Danik answers, "but I shall try to put it in terms you will comprehend. First, I made some physical alterations to you that would help insure your survival. You will enjoy exceptional good health and freedom from congenital defects and debilitating diseases for most of your life – and it will be a long life by human standards. That is, however, insignificant compared to my enhancement of your sensory and cognitive capabilities."

Simon's expression, when I glance at him, is unreadable. I get the sense that Danik wants my full attention before he continues; I grant it, turning to face him again, though I watch Simon out of the corner of my eye.

"In the long term I achieved my object, which was to maximize your inherent capabilities and your use of them. In the short term…there were problems, and that I must apologize for. My modifications caused some incompatibility problems."

"Is _that_ what you call it?" Simon asks in a voice that almost provokes a fight-or-flight response from me.

"That is the explanation, not the result to which you are referring," Danik contends. "I eventually resolved the problem by imparting to you a little of my own intuitive knowledge, from the days before the Transition. You contain a small piece of me."

"I'm glad it's only a _small_ one," Simon remarks.

I no longer flinch when Simon insults Danik: I know by now that Danik will not seek retribution for it. Not because he is benevolent; he simply doesn't care. Simon's words cannot hurt him, and I sense that the only reason for the current apologia is that he is strictly adhering to some moral code from back in the day when he had the feelings of sympathy and shame to build it on. Danik no longer has those, nor does he have anger or indignation.

He does seem to have at least the memory of pity, though, for there is something like it in the look he gives Simon. "I know I placed a terrible burden on you. And I know that for the past ten years, you have not ceased to wonder why. It was for a greater cause – not only the survival of my people, but of this entire universe. I hope you can understand that, and forgive me."

_Why does he care about being forgiven? Perhaps he is not so devoid of feeling as he thinks._ I wonder if that's me thinking, or Andra. If I can really make that distinction.

The wind has been picking up for some time know, although I have not been paying attention and so do not know when it changed from a faint breeze into fitful gusts. A particularly strong one sweeps through, filling the silence between Simon and Danik with a low, whistling howl. My stomach knots and I feel that time has frozen around me, never to resume – that we will three will be standing at this impasse for an eternal moment.

At last Simon nods. "I understand," he says, his voice shaking a little around the edges, "but I cannot forgive." To my gaping astonishment, he takes a few steps towards Danik and holds his cane out to him in his upturned palms, as if surrendering a sword. No…not _surrendering._ No gesture with that much defiance in it could be called a _surrender_.

Danik looks at the cane, then back into Simon's eyes. "What I did to you cannot be undone without causing you grave harm, Simon," he says.

"Of course. I thought as much," Simon replies, his voice more even now. He is still holding out the cane.

"I was under the impression that you were strongly attached to this," Danik says. _So was I._

"That was when I didn't know it marked me as your pawn," Simon replies. "I cannot possibly keep it now, but I cannot throw it away either. I am taking the only appropriate course left to me."

Danik looks Simon in the eye for several moments, giving him a chance to back down. Simon glares back at him, not taking the offer. At last Danik gives a resigned nod and reaches out slowly, plucking the cane from Simon's hands. Both of them take a step back from each other. Danik hefts the cane and holds it like a sceptre. "You should leave," he tells Simon. The words come out a little too quickly, as if Danik is nervous. "What I am about to do is dangerous – it would be best for you to leave the ruins first."

Simon acknowledges this with a nod, but does not move. Instead he looks at me questioningly. The shock of what I just saw, and my surprise at being called upon to act, cause me a moment's confusion before I understand what Simon is waiting for.

"Danik," I say, quietly but not meekly, "I must say goodbye first. Then you can…do whatever it is you must do." I don't wait for him to give or deny me permission: I beckon for Simon to follow me, which he does. We head towards what's left of the main door, the way we both came in, leaving Danik behind us.

Danik does not object, because he and I both know that I will come back. Not only because I have no hope of resisting him, but because I know on some level that Andra's revival and my own consequent obliteration – or something equivalent to it – are inevitable, even _right_. It is a fate I cannot escape any more than I can escape the pull of gravity. Danik does not have to worry about letting me out of his sight. I will be back soon enough.

As soon as we are out of Danik's line of sight and, I assume, his range of hearing (I try not to think about what supernatural senses he might possess), I turn to Simon and say, "You're an idiot."

"On this occasion, yes, I have been," he confesses as we detour around a fallen pillar. This far from Danik's orb, we must rely on the inadequate light of the moon to help us see our way over the debris. I follow in Simon's footsteps, as he seems to be finding his way with little difficulty.

"Were you _trying_ to get yourself killed?" I ask.

"I thought we'd established that I didn't care one way or the other."

"But, for God's sake, _why not_?"

Simon takes a moment to frame his response. "I spent the last ten years wondering why I had been saved from certain death and made the guardian of the Enigmatic Prism. Why I spent most of the subsequent few months in a nightmare. It gave me some comfort, I suppose, to think that I had been chosen to fulfil some monumentally important – dare I say _divine_ – duty." He takes my hand and helps me over a pile of charred timbers. "If not for that, I wouldn't have had faith in anything. Now I know I was just part of someone's experiment, and that my faith was as false as any other."

"Simon…"

"Not only that, but I am about to lose the only…" He stops walking, so suddenly that I almost bump into him, and looks at me for a span of heartbeats. "The only real friend I've ever had," he finishes quietly. "That sort of thing is bound to provoke suicidal tendencies in anyone." Simon resumes walking, at a slightly faster pace than before.

I scramble to catch up with him. "Thank you," I murmur, because I can't think of anything else to say.

"For what?" he asks, as if he's forgotten what he said a few moments ago. I almost want to strangle him for his affected nonchalance.

"For calling me your friend," I say.

"It doesn't mean much now."

_No, Simon, it means everything now_. But I don't say that.

We stop just inside the arch of the main door, through which we can see the overgrown lawn of the estate, the surrounding trees, and the twinkling lights of Partington two miles away. Though I cannot make out the towers of the Residence in the darkness, I know where they are, and I stare towards them for a few moments.

"What are you going to do now?" I ask Simon.

He looks in the direction of the city. "Carry out that subterfuge we devised," he replies, "and find where Helena Romanelli hid her ill-gotten gains."

"I mean _after_ that," I clarify.

He glances sideways at me. "What you're _really_ asking me is whether I am going to look for a new partner."

I can't deny it. "Yes."

"The answer is: I'm not sure." I see Simon make his _geste de pense_. "Ophelia would make a good assistant, but she does not have the learning or investigative skill to make a good partner." Not to mention that a pint-sized bearded lady wouldn't exactly be a _socially acceptable_ partner – though I doubt Simon's concerned about that. Still, Ophelia will be helpful to him; I can concede that much.

"You should find one," I say. "Not just someone with the requisite skills – somebody who thinks of detective work as more than just a job…"

"That goes without saying."

"…who will show some concern for you, and speak up when they think you're wrong about something." After a moment's thought I add, "And they shouldn't be easily offended. That's essential." Too late I realize that he might – quite understandably – misconstrue that as a bit of teasing, which isn't how I meant it at all.

Simon, though, misconstrues very little. "Emma, I'm actually disinclined to look for a new partner. After all, I found you more or less by accident." He gives me a sharp look to silence the protest I'm about to make. "I will be quite all right on my own. I was fine before we…"

"No, Simon. You weren't."

He doesn't argue with me. He doesn't even make much of an effort to stare me down – he simply looks at me, lost for words.

I take his hand and, uncomfortable with the silence, I try to fill it. "Promise that you'll find a replacement for me." Such a promise won't make me feel much better, in the brief time I will still be here to feel anything, but at least I will know that I have spared him some guilt.

Simon shakes his head. "I can find someone you'd approve of, perhaps," he says, "but a _replacement_ for you is too much to ask."

I surprise both of us by embracing him tightly. But I suppose that under the circumstances it was the only appropriate course of action to take. Simon holds me for some unmeasurable time without saying anything. In the end, I'm the one who breaks it off – and when I do the gusting wind chills me as it never did before.

"I should go," I say quietly. "I…we both have our duty to attend to."

Simon looks at me for a few moments, then nods. "Goodbye, Emma." He steps back and sideways, putting him on the other side of the archway.

"Goodbye," I say quietly, half-sad and half-relieved that we've finished saying our farewells. I turn around a little too abruptly and start making my way back into the ruins. Behind me I hear Simon's footsteps as he heads back in the direction of Partington. Perhaps one of us ought to stand and watch the other leave, storybook-style, but I can't bear to do that. I don't look over my shoulder and can only wonder whether or not Simon is looking back at me.

"Are you ready?' Danik asks when I step back into the clearing, as if there had been no interruption. I notice that the cane has vanished.

"Just one thing," I say, stopping a few steps short of him. I realize that I feel remarkably calm, even with the knowledge of what's about to happen. "Was your experiment successful?"

Danik's gaze drops for a short while as he considers my question. "I would say yes, though not in the way I expected. There is much to be done…" Danik extends his right hand, palm up. "…when you are restored."

I take a few steps toward him, looking at the offered hand, which pulls me in like a lodestone does iron filings. I reach out and touch my palm to Danik's, and his fingers gently curl around mine. "It's time to wake up, Solusandra."

And the world is obliterated by blinding yellow light…

I wake up on some hard surface, and open my eyes to huge, vague, malignant shapes somewhere above me. A terrible beast is roaring in my ears. I move to put my hands over my ears, which causes me excruciating pain; I'm wrapped in a sheet of woven razor wires that cut into my skin. Every breath feels like a thousand tiny knives in my lung. I become aware of a sharp, somehow familiar noise that periodically cuts through the ambient roar. There's something running rampant in my head, ricocheting around my brain. It's too big, too fast, to be contained by my mind, and it plays a cacophonous full-orchestra symphony on my emotions. Maybe it's a thought, or a collection of thoughts, or shreds of nightmare; whatever it is, I know it did not originate with me.

Mercifully the terrible sensations fade – or rather, my senses slowly dull to a normal level. The roar is reduced to the forlorn howl of wind. The razor wire becomes sackcloth, and then the cotton and wool of my clothing. The sharp sound I heard, which is still repeating itself, is Simon calling my name. Not the name Danik called me – which I can't remember now – but my _real_ name.

I open my eyes, sit up quickly and almost black out as a result. Simon bounds into the clearing to my left. "Emma," he chokes out between gasps for breath. He takes two steps towards me, then stops. "_Are_ you?" he asks warily.

_Am I what?_ It takes me a moment to understand the question. When I do I snap, "What kind of silly question is that?"

Simon is visibly relieved. "Yes, it certainly _is_ you." He covers the rest of the distance between us in a few steps and offers a hand to help me up. When I take it he pulls me to my feet, and I almost fall down again. The strong wind pushing against me doesn't help. I stay as I am for a few moments, remembering how to balance, taking deep breaths, getting my strength back. "I'm all right," I assure Simon.

With that established, he seems to regain his composure, and is all business as usual. "What happened?" he asks.

I can't answer that question. Somehow, in those terrible seconds after I first woke up, I knew what had happened. Now I have forgotten. "There was…I…" I give it up and shrug. "I don't know. I can't remember. Maybe whatever Danik tried didn't work."

"If that were so, he'd be back by now." Simon glances at a pile of rubble, bends over briefly and picks up something, which he hands to me. It's my hat, which I lost when I first came here. With muttered thanks I accept it and put it on, hoping the wind won't just blow it off again.

Simon looks up at the sky, then back at me. "Can you walk?" he asks. I nod. We start making our way out of the ruins again. I lean on Simon's arm for support. Only then am I hit by the full realization that I am, by some miracle, still alive.

"What made you come back?" I ask.

"As I was walking away, there was a burst of light from the ruins." He adopts the same manner and tone of voice that he does when giving the summation of a crime. "It went upwards. Then, a few seconds later, there was another one, going in the opposite direction. When I saw that I went back…"

"…and found me," I say. _I wish I knew what happened. No…maybe I don't._ "I can't believe it," I mutter to myself.

"Can't believe what?" Simon asks.

"Everything that happened in the past hour. The fact that I'm still here." I squint at him in puzzlement. "I think what I find _least_ believable is that you gave up your cane."

"That was a little impulsive of me, yes."

"Simon, it was 'a little impulsive' the way water is 'a little wet.'"

Simon smiles at me. "I'm glad you decided to come back." We're coming up on the arch now. Frankly, I'll be glad to get out of here and never see the place again.

"Well, after I thought about it somewhat, the prospect of being a goddess lost its appeal," I say conversationally. "It would have gotten boring after a while."

"Really?"

"Absolutely. And…as difficult as I find it to live _with_ you, I…it would be impossible for me to live _without_ you." _I can't believe I just said that._

At this Simon stops walking, as do I. We're just outside of the arch now. He looks at me with his brow furrowed in puzzlement. In the light of the moon I can just make out the amused glint in his eyes. "I hope that means what I think it does," he says.

"Why?"

"Because," Simon murmurs, gently cradling my face in his hands, "If it doesn't, you're going to be _very_ upset in a moment."

And then he touches his lips to mine.

_Oh, my_…

I close my eyes, twine my arms about Simon's neck and pull him closer, feeling about as far from upset as one can possibly be. He gathers me up in his arms, redoubling the intensity of the butterflies in my stomach, the thrill singing in my nerves, the rapid beating of my heart.

_Oh, yes._

A booming crack of thunder (perhaps not the first, but the only one so far that's managed to catch our attention), startles us into looking upward just in time to catch the first few drops of the coming rainstorm on our faces. "Oh _hell!_" I exclaim.

Simon makes an odd noise; after a second of alarm I recognize it as a chuckle. His chuckle quickly grows into a laugh – a wonderful sound I haven't heard in months. It takes him near half a minute to calm down. "Though I don't have much experience in these matters," he says, "I'm quite sure that _isn't_ an appropriate thing to say after a first kiss."

A flush of embarrassment blooms in my cheeks. "Sorry. What would you prefer me to say?" I ask, having to raise my voice over the noise of the rain, which is well on its way to becoming a downpour.

"I don't know. As I said, I have little experience in these matters." Another thunderclap sounds above us, accompanied by a bolt of lightning. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion somewhere drier?" he suggests.

"Let's," I agree. Simon steps back and takes my hand; together we run across the lawn towards the city and home.

THE END


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue

** How did you do that?**

_ It was easy. She wasn't mine anymore: she was herself, so I just let her go._

** I'm sure it was not _that_ simple.**

Of course it was. You just always make things out to be more complicated than they are. You know, I think next time we do something like this, we should split off pieces of ourselves first. They would be us, but we wouldn't be them – it would make things a lot simpler.

**If you think you can do it, then yes, it seems like a good idea.**

No, we aren't going to do it that way. I will teach you to make pieces of yourself, and I will give out the sigils. You're not very good with human minds; I think I could understand them better, now that I've been one. A human, I mean.

**So, you want to do this again?**

Oh, certainly! But I was thinking of some ways we could change the rules, to make it more interesting. That is, assuming you still want to play.

**Of course I do. This has been a most edifying experience. So tell me, what do you plan for us to do next?**

_FIN_


	13. Acknowledgements

Credit where credit is due:

First to my friends: Thanks to Will and Alryssa for reading this fic in the development stages and offering me their support. Special thanks goes to Rachel, who didn't mind my pestering her about the story and my talking about it constantly – and who gave me some valuable suggestions when I was stuck.

Next, to other CrossGen fans who helped me: I haven't read the other Sigilverse CrossGen titles, but the people on the official CrossGen forums were a big help in providing me with a guide to the "uber-backstory" of the Sigilverse. Particular thanks go to Oxhine, a rabid CrossGen fan of the first order, who responded to my request for info by writing a comprehensive Sigilverse primer. If not for the help and encouragement of these Sigilverse fans, I would not have been able to construct Emma's backstory in a way that was consistent with the canon.

To authors who have come before, and provided me with inspiration for this story: Thanks to Wilkie Collins, the author of _The Moonstone,_ which was the first true detective novel ever written and is widely regarded as one of the best (if not _the_ best) in the genre. Thanks also to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for creating Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, whose adventures I should have picked up and read a long time ago. Finally, I must thank Jane Austen: _Pride & Prejudice_ isn't a mystery novel, but for some reason Simon and Emma remind me of Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet.

Finally, thanks to Mark Waid, Scott Beatty, Butch Guice, Mike Perkins, Laura Depuy-Martin, and Dave Lanphear for making _Ruse_ such a great comic. Good show, gents!


End file.
